^ 


B 


f^> 


J.  r^M^m^^j3KW1M\ 


*f  i;,»:' 


^^ 


^ 


LI  B  11 A  FLY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

or    ILLI  NOIS 

823 

VI 


CONTINENTAL 


ADVENTURES. 


A  NOVEL. 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES. 


Adeste  sultis,  prseda  erit  praesentium, 
Logos  ridicules  vendo> 

Plautts. 


VOLUME  I. 


LONDON: 

PRINTED  FOR  HURST,  ROBINSON  &  CO. 

5,    WATERLOO-PLACE,    PALL-MALL. 


1826. 


8^^ 


TO  MY  READERS. 


I  DID  not — like  many  amiable  authors^  write  these 
pages  purely  from  the  benevolent  motive  of  amusing 
your  leisure  hours ;  for  I  wrote  them  to  amuse  my  own. 
Nor  do  I  publish  them,  like  most  diffident  writers, 
''^with  sincere  reluctance;,  and  only  at  the  reiterated 
and  urgent  request  of  partial  friends" — I  publish  them 
entirely  to  please  myself,  and  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them  in  print  ;-^a  delight, 
though  unconfessed,  so  dear  to  the  secret  soul  of  an 
author  ! 


VI 


"  An  author  !  But  what  author  ?" — methinks  I 
hear  you  inquire ;  for  as  the  first  question  always 
asked  about  a  man,  is — ^"Who  is  he?"  not  "What  is 
he?"  so  the  first  inquiry  about  a  book  is,  not — "What 
are  its  merits  ?"  but  "Who  is  the  author  ?" 

After  all,  however,  what  can  it  signify  to  you,  my 
dear  readers,  who  I  am  ?  I  have  a  name,  certainly — 
but  what  has  my  name  to  do  with  my  book  ?" 

A  rose, 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 

Besides, 

Authors  you  know  of  greatest  fame, 
Through  modesty  suppress  their  name ; 
And  would  you  wish  me  to  reveal. 
What  these  superior  wits  conceal  ? 

The  fact  is,  my  noble,  gentle,  and  simple  readers,  that 
I  don't  like  to  tell  you  my  name,  because  I  am  afraid 
you  won't  like  my  book. 


vn 


Some  \vriters  indeed — such  as  my  distinguished 
friends.  Dr.  Dryasdust,  Jedediah  Cleishbotham,  and 
Malachi  Malagrowther,  assume  a  mask  in  character  ; 
but  I  must  be  content  to  shrink  from  observation  under 
the  unambitious  domino  of — The  Author. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  apologize  to  you  for  my  pre- 
sumption in  striking  out  of  the  high  road  of  literature, 
into  an  unbeaten  path  (so  far  as  I  remember) ;  and 
attempting  to  combine  the  real  scenes  and  adventures 
of  an  actual  tour,  with  a  fictitious  story  and  imaginary 
characters;  for  the  incidents  detailed  in  these  pages 
are  true,  the  tale  alone  is  invention. — But  I  am 
unskilled  in  the  farce  of  afi^ected  modesty — am  uncon- 
scious that  there  is  any  thing  in  the  design,  though 
much  in  the  execution  of  the  book,  to  require 
apology ; — and  above  all,  I  am  quite  certain  that  if  it 
does  not  please  you  of  itself,  no  apology  that  I  can 
make  for  it  will  recommend  it  to  your  favour. 


If,  however^  any  marks  of  haste  or  inattention 
should  appear  in  these  pages,  let  them  not  be  imputed 
to  disrespect  or  arrogance.  They  have  sprung  from 
no  presumptuous  confidence  in  my  own  pov/ers — no 
contemptuous  disregard  to  the  opinion  of  the  public  ; 
but  from  misfortunes  which  I  could  not  foresee^  and 
events  which  I  could  not  controul.  Little  did  I  anti- 
cipate when  writing  these  adventures,  which  formed 
the  amusement  of  the  last  four  happy  months  of  my  life^ 
the  scenes  of  long-continued  domestic  affliction  which 
were  destined  to  interfere  with  their  intended  careful 
revision^  and  even  with  the  ordinary  attention  to  the 
correction  of  the  press.  Certainly,  this  work  has 
not  exactly  undergone  the  probation  which  Horace 
prescribes,  before  appearing  in  the  world.  But  the 
alternative  was — now,  or  never ;  for  the  truth  is,  that 
so  utterly  unintelligible  to  others,  is  that  system  of 
hieroglyphics  which  I  denominate  my  hand- writing,  that 
it  was  quite  certain  the  book  never  could  be  printed 


after  my  death,  and  therefore  I  was  extremely  desirous 
to  have  it  printed  before  I  departed  this  life, — an 
event  probably  not  distant.  But  other  events,  un- 
dreaded  and  unanticipated,  were  at  hand,  to  destroy 
every  plan  and  prospect  of  my  life. 

Yet  even  in  my  days  of  happiness,  I  must  own, 
that  I  had  a  little  work  in  18mo.  up  in  the  nursery, 
which  at  times  somewhat  distracted  my  attention  from 
this  weightier  work  in  post  8vo.  in  the  library.  This 
may  seem  trifling,  but  it  is  true.  The  workings  of 
the  human  heart  never  can  be  uninteresting.  It  is 
them  we  seek  through  books  of  biography  and  tales  of 
fiction.  I  loved  my  child  better  than  myself.  To 
have  saved  him  I  would  (O  how  joyfully  !)  have  made 
oblations  of  all  my  works,  past,  present,  and  future- 
have  buried  my  praise  in  dust — sacrificed  all  my  hopes 
on  earth, — '^  fame^  wealth,"  and  I  fear  "  honour/' 


The  rigid  moralist  may  frown — and  he  is  in  the 
rights  but 

He  talks  to  me,  that  never  had  a  son ! 

My  heart  and  soul  were  with  my  first,  my  only, 
angel  child.     And  now,  even  now. 

Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me  ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form — 

Was  it  then  wonderful  that  grief  alone,  filled  my 
soul?  That  when  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  me 
were  successively  laid  upon  the  bed  of  danger  and  of 
death,  all  else  was  neglected  and  forgotten  ? 

With  the  private  misfortunes  of  an  Author,  indeed, 
the  public  has  no   concern;  but  they  are  mentioned 


here,  lest  defects,  occasioned  by  sickness  and  sorrow, 
should  erroneously  be  attributed  to  that  carelessness  and 
presumption,  which  success  too  often  engenders. 

To  many,  indeed,  sorrow  will  plead  no  excuse  for 
error ;  but  there  are  some,  who  will  judge  more  leni- 
ently;— some,  who  will  forbear  to  visit  with  severe  de- 
nunciation, any  inaccuracies  they  may  discern ;  for  they 
themselves  have  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  affliction — 
they  themselves  have  known  what  are  the  sensibilities 
of  a  woman,  and  the  feelings  of  a  wife,  a  daughter, 
and  a  mother; — and  they  can  best  understand  the 
secret  pangs  of  agony,  which,  since  these  trifling 
pages  were  written,  have  wrung  the  heart  of 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CHAPTER  L 


ENGLAND. 


Farewell  to  the  land  where  m  childhood  I  wandered ! 

Moore. 
My  native  land — good  night ! 

Lord  Byron. 
Travelling  in  youth  is  part  of  education. 

Bacoit. 


In  a  room  strewed  over  with  the  usual 
elegant  English  litter  of  music,  books,  prints, 
cabinets,  old  china,  new  nick-nacks,  musical 
instruments,  and  innumerable  pieces  of  furniture 
— so  that  a  foreigner,  accustomed  only  to  the 
immoveable  tables  and  chairs  of  continental 
saloons,  might,  on  first  entering,  be  puzzled  to 
guess  whether   he   was  in  a  drawing  room,  a 

VOL.    I.  B 


2  ENGLAND. 

music  room,  a  china  shop,  or  an  upholsterer^s 
show  room  ; — in  this  truly  English  apartment, 
were  seated  two  young  ladies — one  of  whom 
seemed  intent  upon  her  drawing, — the  other, 
after  a  long  silence,  threw  down  her  book^-one 
of  the  innumerable  new  "  Travels  in  Italy," 
and  started  up,  exclaiming, 

Breathes  there  a  girl,  with  soul  so  dead, 

"Who  never  to  herself  has  said, 

J'rf  like  to  see  some  foreign  land-^ 

Whose  heart  has  ne'er  within  her  burn'd, 

As  fast  the  chariot  wheels  have  turn'd. 

To  bear  her  to  a  distant  strand  ? 

If  such  there  be,  go  mark  him  well — 

Her  I  mean — "  but  why  '  mark  her  well  ?' — 
I''m  sure  she  can't  be  worth  marking  or  remarking 
at  all.     What  comes  next,  Georgiana  ?'' 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
•     Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 

''  But  how  could  such  a  wretch  ever  have  any 
renown  to  forfeit  ?"''' 

"  Why,  Caroline,"  exclaimed  her  sister, 
laughing,  "  how  can  you,  of  all  people,  attempt 
to  parody  those  beautiful  lines  that  I  have  heard 


ENGLAND,  3 

you  repeat   a  hundred  times,  with  such  enthu- 
siasm— spouting  after  them 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild  ! 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood  ! 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood ! 
Land  of  my  sires  ! 

"No,"  exclaimed  Caroline,  "but  now  I  exclaim,'^ 

O  Italy  !  serene  and  mild  ! 
Meet  nurse  for  a  romantic  child  ! 
Land  of  the  classic  field  and  flood  ! 
Land  of  the  great,  the  brave,  the  good ; 
Land — 

"  Not  of  my  sires — but  of  my  desires.'' 

"  Caroline,  CaroHne !  you  have  certainly  lost 
your  wits,''  said  her  sister,  laughing. 

"  You  are  too  flattering,  my  dear  Georgiana, 
for  I  could  not  lose  my  wits,  without  having 
wits  to  lose — a  supposition  which  is  highly 
complimentary — any  more  than  the  wretch  could 
forfeit  renown,  without  having  renown  to 
forfeit." 

"  Well,  you  really  amaze  me — I  can  under- 
stand  people's   delight   in    returning   to   their 
B  2 


4  ENGLAND. 

country — but  not  in  leaving  it.  If  all  these 
raptures  had  been  about  visiting  America,  your 
native  country" 

"  America  my  country  !  I  an  American  ! 
You  might  just  as  reasonably  call  a  man  a 
Turk,  because  he  happened  to  be  born  at 
Constantinople,  as  call  me  an  American  because 
I  came  into  the  world  in  some  queer  corner  of 
Canada.  What  !  because  my  father  happened 
to  be  fighting  against  the  Americans  when  I 
was  born — which  was  the  cause  of  my  being 
born  in  their  vile  country — is  that  a  reason  for 
my  being  an  American  T"" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  Some  reason  there 
must  be  for  your  being  so  very  extraordinary — 
so  very  unlike  every  body  else.  Now,  you  may 
be  like  an  American  for  aught  I  know,  for  I 
know  nothing  about  them,  but  you  certainly  are 
hke  nothing  that  I  do  know, — nothing  earthly." 

"  Nothing  earthly  !  then  I  hope  I  am  hke 
something  heavenly,''  said  Caroline  laughing; 
"  but  then,  if  I  am  something  heavenly,  I  must 
be  something  immaterial;  so,  after  all,  the 
compliment  is  not  so  great." 


ENGLAND.  5 

"  Something,  if  not  quite  spiritual,^''  said 
Georgiana,  "at  least  very  spirituelle; — you 
know  old  M.  Le  Comte  de  Blacquiere  used 
always  to  say,  that  Miss  Caroline  St.  Clair  vas 
de  per  Sonne  du  monde  la  plus  spirituelle.'''' 

''  Yes,  and  mamma  used  always  to  tell  me, 
for  fear  he  should  make  me  vain — '  The  Count 
only  means,  by  '''spirituelle,^''  that  you  have  great 
spirits,  child.  Don't  fancy  he  means  you  have 
great  talent.'  But  I  would  much  rather  have 
the  one  than  the  other ;  for,  in  my  opinion, 
good  spirits  are  far  more  desirable  than  great 
talents.'' 

"  But  you  have  great  spirits  at  all  times ; 
though  seriously,  Caroline,  I  am  astonished 
how  you  can  have  such  spirits  now,  when  you 
are  on  the  eve  of  leaving  your  friends  and  your 
country." 

"  And  seriously,  Georgiana,  you  talk  as  if 
I  was  going  to  Botany  Bay, — instead  of  going  to 
take  the  tour  of  Europe  ;  going,  at  last,  to  see 
those  enchanting  scenes  which  I  have  read  of, 
heard  of — dreamed  of — longed  for  years  to 
behold.     Of  all   sorts  of  affectation,  I  do  most 


b  ENGLAND. 

cordially  hate  the  affectation  of  sentiment.  I 
shall  leave  my  "country,*"  as  you  pathetically  term 
it,  with  the  utmost  insensibility — the  most  hard 
hearted  indifference.  And  pray  what  should  I 
bemoan  myself  about  ?  Charles  is  at  school, 
Fanny  is  at  school,  and  you — if  I  had  been 
going  to  leave  you,  indeed,  at  home  and  alone, 
it  would  have  been  widely  different.  But  it  is 
you  who  are  going  to  leave  me,  and  for  ever  !*" 
— Here  her  voice  faltered,  her  countenance 
changed,  and  she  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to 
struggle  with  some  suppressed  feeling.  But  the 
smile  beamed  again  over  her  cheek  and  eye,  and 
with  renewed  spirit  she  exclaimed—"  But, 
before  I  go,  I  shall  see  you  married  to  the 
man  you  love  ;  I  shall  see  you  in  the  possession 
of  the  happiness  it  has  been  the  wish  of  my 
heart  you  should  enjoy  You  know  how  I 
should  have  rejoiced  in  your  marriage,  even  had 
I  been  left  without  you  at  home  and  alone. 
But  what  would  home  have  been  to  me  then  ? 
How  lonely,  how  blank,  how  cheerless  it  would 
become  without  you — the  companion  of  my 
days  and  hours,  of  my  thoughts  and  pleasures ! 


ENGLAND.  7 

But,  as  it  is,  T  have  nothing  to  regret  in  leaving 
home,  except  my  mother ; — and  my  mother" — 

"  And  my  mother  !'"* 

"  And  my  mother,  Georgiana — you  know — 
I  may  say  so  to  you — that  she  will  not  miss  me 
much.  She  will  go  on  leading  the  same  life  of 
gaiety,  and  enjoy  it  far  more  than  when  she  had 
to  push  me  on,  and  show  me  off,  and  annoy 
herself  about  my  being  fashionable  and  admired; 
— and  getting  married;  for  that  is  the  plain 
English  of  it  all.  And — O  Georgiana  !  it  is 
impossible  to  tell  you  what  a  relief  it  is  to  escape 
being  hawked  about  in  that  manner.^' 

"Nay,  I  am  sure  you  never  have  been 
hawked  about ;  you  never  would.  All  my 
poor  mamma's  ingenious  contrivances  to  show 
you  off — or  hook  you  on  to  certain  young 
"  desirables'*''  you  are  sure  most  undutifully  to 
circumvent,  with  all  the  apparent  unconscious 
simplicity  in  the  world.  And  as  for  your  accom- 
plishments, I  am  sure  you  might  as  well  have 
none — as  far  as  the  display  of  them  goes.  You 
never  play  or  sing  in  pubhc,  and  so  far  from 
exhibiting  your  knowledge  in  society,  I  must  say 
for  you  that  you  do  nothing  but  talk  nonsense. 


8  ENGLAND. 

"  A  most  rare  and  valuable  accomplishment," 
said  Caroline,  laughing,  "  you  know  it  is  only 
people  of  sense  that  can  talk  nonsense  well — 
and  I  am  sure  it  is  better  to  talk  it  in  any  style^ 
than  to  talk  wisdom.  There  is  nothing  half  so 
stupid  as  perpetually  descanting  about  literature, 
and  science,  and  learning,  as  people  do  in  these 
days.     I  don't  know  whether 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing, 

"  But  I  am  sure  it  is  a  very  tiresome  thing.*" 

"  A  little  learning  may  be  tiresome,  perhaps, 
but  when  people  have  a  great  deal,  like  some 
people,  Caroline,  I  really  think  there  is  no 
occasion  to  lock  it  up  so  carefully,  as  if  it  was 
a  crime ;  and,  as  mamma  observes,  all  the  pains 
that  she  takes  to  draw  you  out,  are  thrown 
away. "" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  good  mamma,  with 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  has  taken  a 
world  of  pains,  to  no  purpose.  Her  very 
anxiety  to  obtain  her  ends,  defeats  them.  She 
might  remember  the  words  of  Solomon,  '  surely 
it  is  in  vain  that  the  snare  is  laid  in  the  sight  of 
any  bird.'      All  her  springes  to  catch  woodcocks 


ENGLAND.  y 

have  failed.  Her  traps  are  useless,  and  after 
all  she  is  obliged  to  agree  to  your  marrying  a 
man  for  whom  she  never  laid  any  trap  at  all — 
a  man  who,  however  rich,  and  estimable  and 
agreeable,  is,  after  all,  only  a  man — not  a  man  of 
rank,  nor  even  a  great  man  at  all — ^but  a  man 
who,  dreadful  to  relate,  may  be  seen  every  day 
in  a  black  gown  and  a  great  wig,  cross-question- 
ing vulgar  witnesses  in  a  dirty  court  of  justice."" 

"  Yes,  my  marriage  is  indeed  a  sad  blow  to 
mamma's  ambition  !  and  if  you,  upon  whom 
all  her  hopes  are  placed,  do  not  make  what 
she  considers  a  good  match" — 

"  Why,  between  ourselves  Georgiana,  I  am 
convinced  my  mother  would  never  have  con- 
sented to  my  going  abroad,  if  it  had  not  been 
put  into  her  head,  that  abroad  was  just  now  the 
best  place  for  making  a  good  match — catch — or 
whatever  they  call  it — a  notion,  by  the  way,  that 
has  set  many  mammas  and  misses  on  their  travels: 
— but  it  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  mine.  For 
what  are  men,  compared  to  rocks  and  moun- 
tains ?  what  are  husbands  to  pictures  and 
statues  .^     No,  no  !  when   1   come  back  it   will 


10  ENGLAND. 

be  time  enough  to  think  of  lovers  and  husbands, 
and  such  subordinate  things." 

"  So  you  think  husbands  subordinate  things, 
do  you  ?"  said  Georgiana  laughing.  "  If  that 
opinion  were  made  known  among  the  gentlemen, 
you  would  be  very  little  troubled  with  such 
'  subordinate  things'." 

The  conversation  between  the  sisters  was  here 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Balcarris, 
a  barrister,  a  man  of  great  talent  and  high 
respectability,  who  was  on  the  point  of  marriage 
with  Georgiana  St.  Clair. 

Georgiana  and  Caroline  St.  Clair,  were  the 
daughters  of  Lady  St.  Clair,  a  fashionable  fine- 
looking  widow  of  five  and  forty,  and  a  woman  of 
the  world.  She  had  another  daughter,  Fanny, 
aged  fifteen,  at  an  excellent  school,  and  one 
son,  a  boy,  at  Eton,  heir  to  the  estate.  Her 
jointure  was  considerable,  but  her  daughters' 
fortunes  were  only  c^'lOjOOO  each,  and  she  was, 
therefore,  doubly  anxious  they  should  marry 
-well — that  is,  as  to  rank,  fortune,  and  fashion ; 
for  these  were  the  only  objects  she  sought  for 
them,  as  she  had  done  for  herself,  in  that  indis- 


ENGLAND.  .  11 

soluble  connexion  which  in  youth  determines 
the  fate  of  life.  Yet  her  own  experience  might 
have  taught  her  the  futility,  even  in  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  of  marrying  merely  for  the  sake 
of  these  considerations;  for,  after  voluntarily 
sacrificing  her  attachment  to  her  lover,  because  he 
had  neither  rank  nor  wealth,  and  marrying,  for 
these  requisites,  General  Sir  Reginald  St.  Clair, 
who  was  old  and  ugly  though  sensible  and  good 
tempered ;  only  two  years  after  her  marriage, 
her  lover,  by  the  death  of  his  elder  brother, 
came  into  possession  of  a  large  fortune,  and  not 
long  afterwards,  by  the  death  of  a  cousin, 
succeeded  to  a  title.  This  event  was  a  dreadful 
blow  to  her.  Her  love  and  her  ambition  gave 
double  poignancy  to  the  bitterness  of  her  regret ; 
for  she  still  loved  him,  and  she  knew  herself  to 
be  passionately  beloved  by  him.  If,  however, 
a  latent  hope  that  the  good  old  General  might 
soon  drop  off,  and  leave  her  a  disconsolate 
widow  to  mourn  his  loss,  had  any  place  in 
her  thoughts  when  she  married  him,  she  was 
grievously  disappointed,  for  he  survived  their 
imion  twenty   years,    and    made    an    indulgent 


12  ENGLAND. 

husband,  and  an  excellent  father.  Whatever 
might  be  her  feelings  towards  him,  however, 
she  had  given  him  one  instance  of  conjugal 
attachment,  by  following  him  to  North  America, 
where  he  held  a  high  command,  and  was 
incessantly  engaged  in  perilous  and  sanguinary 
campaigns.  She  had  herself  traversed  a  vast 
extent  of  that  savage  country,  through  its 
pathless  woods  and  wildernesses,  surmounting 
perils  and  privations,  such  as  a  female  has 
rarely  encountered.  It  was  during  her  abode 
in  America  that  Caroline  was  born,  but  she 
came  to  England  with  her  mother  at  an  age  too 
early  to  remember  the  land  of  her  birth. 
Caroline  St.  Clair  possessed  all  the  excellencies 
and  all  the  defects  that  are  usually  attendant 
upon  a  generous  and  ardent  character.  No  one 
knew  their  faults  better  than  herself — ^no  human 
being  was  ever  more  free  from  vanity  and  self- 
ishness ;  more  superior  to  envy,  jealousy,  and 
every  base  and  little  passion.  Resentment,  even 
for  injury,  could  not  find  more  than  a  transient 
place  in  her  bosom ;  it  was  soon  forgotten  or 
forgiven,  but  kindness  left  a  lasting  impression 


ENGLAND.  13 

on  her  heart.  For  those  she  loved  she  was 
capable  of  any  exertion,  however  great — of  any 
sacrifice,  however  painful.  With  the  most 
acute  sensibihty  and  most  refined  delicacy,  she 
displayed  that  fortitude  and  courage,  which 
minds  of  strong  power  and  feeling  generally 
possess  ;  yet  every  part  of  her  character  was 
truly  feminine.  She  seemed  to  have  the  mind 
of  a  man  and  the  heart  of  a  woman.  Though 
her  acquirements,  even  in  this  learned  age,  were 
extraordinary,  she  was  unaffectedly  modest  and 
unassuming;  and,  continually  measuring  the 
little  she  knew  with  the  immense  stores  of 
unexplored  knowledge,  no  human  being  had  so 
sincerely  humble  an  opinion  of  her  own  attain- 
ments and  talents  as  herself.  All  that  is  great, 
or  beautiful,  or  sublime  in  the  works  of  nature 
or  of  man,  seemed  at  once  to  assimilate  itself 
to  her  mind.  Her  taste  was  exquisitely  and 
intuitively  correct  and  highly  cultivated,  and 
her  fondness  for  the  arts  almost  amounted  to  a 
passion.  Her  acquaintance  extolled  her  wit  and 
talents.  Her  friends  thought  only  of  her 
virtues.     In  every  exigence — in  sickness  and  in 


14  ENGLAND. 

sorrow — they  turned  to  her  for  support,  kind- 
ness, and  consolation.  In  domestic  life,  none 
was  ever  more  amiable  or  more  belo\ed ;  and  it 
was  in  domestic  life  she  shone  the  most.  A 
writer  whose  life  was  spent  with  the  most  brilliant 
wits  of  the  most  polished  courts,*  beautifully 
says,  "  Je  n'ai  pas  bonne  opinion  de  ceux  qui 
ne  sont  pas  aimables  dans  leur  famille.  Sans 
parler  du  mauvais  coeur  que  cela  suppose,  il  faut 
en  etre  peu  riche,  pour  se  montrer  si  econome 
d'esprit  et  de  grace."  Such,  indeed,  was  the 
native  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  that  those 
who  might  have  been  repelled  by  her  talents, 
were  attracted  by  her  kindness  of  heart ;  and, 
above  all,  by  the  nature,  and  spirit,  and  origina- 
lity of  her  character  and  conversation.  Her 
vivacity  and  quickness  of  intellect  were  united 
to  uncommon  strength  of  judgment,  power  of 
discrimination,  and  high  principle ; — ^but  she  was 
too  impatient  of  controul,  too  rash  in  resolution, 
too  regardless  of  consequences  and  appearances, 


•  he  Prince  du  Ligne. 


ENGLAND.  15 

too  confiding,  too  inconsiderate,  and  far  too 
imprudent.  She  was  not  regularly  beautiful, 
but  she  was  strikingly  elegant  and  graceful,  and 
few  were  so  engaging  and  fascinating.  The 
irresistible  witchery  of  her  countenance,  the  ease 
of  her  motion,  the  fineness  of  her  form,  the  life 
and  animation  that  she  diffused  around  her; 
and  above  all,  the  charm  of  her  natural  and 
undesigning  manner  attracted  universal  interest 
and  admiration  wherever  she  was  seen,  and  the 
warmest  affection  wherever  she  was  known. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  PASSAGE. 


Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float, 
Upon  the  western  breezes. 

Breathe  soft, 
Ye  clarionets,  and  softer  still,  ye  flutes. 
That  winds  and  waters,  lull'd  by  magic  sounds. 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore. 


In  a  few  weeks  Georgiana  St.  Clair  was 
married  to  Mr.  Balcarris,  with  all  that  privacy 
and  absence  of  parade  which  characterize  modern 
marriages. — After  the  ceremony,  the  happy 
pair  were,  as  usual,  whirled  off  as  rapidly  as 
a  carriage  and  four  could  convey  them,  to 
country  retirement,  and  perfect  felicity ;  and 
in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Caroline  set  off 
for  the  continent,  with  her  recently  married 
friend    and  cousin,    and  her  husband.  Colonel 


THE    PASSAGE.  17 

Cleveland,  a  noble-spirited  and  distinguished 
British  officer,  of  high  family  and  good  fortune. 

Instead  of  detailing,  sentimentally,  all  the 
feelings  and  emotions  of  our  heroine,  on  leaving 
her  mother,  her  brother,  (a  fine  manly  Etonian,) 
her  sister  Fanny,  a  charming  girl  of  fifteen, 
her  home,  and  her  country,  for  the  first  time ; 
we  shall  favour  our  readers  with  an  extract  from 
a  letter  to  her  eldest  sister,  now  a  bride,  Mrs. 
Balcarris,  written  from  France;  taking  the 
liberty  to  begin  according  to  the  most  approved 
canons  of  criticism  "  in  medias  res^ 

The  separation  from  her  sister  had  naturally 
engrossed  some  of  her  thoughts.  After  alluding 
to  it  she  added — "  After  all,  my  dear  Georgiana, 
we  must  endure  some  trials  in  this  world,  and 
trials  of  whatever  degree,  are  better  borne  by 
forcing  our  minds  from  their  contemplation,  than 
by  struggling  to  endure  them.  The  true  and 
only  philosophy  is  the  art  of  being  happy— of 
gathering  the  roses  of  life,  and  leaving  the  thorns 
behind.  What  old  philosopher  was  it  that  said, 
'  he  would  choose  to  be  a  Stoic  in  bearing  the 
sorrows  of  life,  and  an  Epicurean  in  enjoying 
VOL.    I.  c 


18  THE   PASSAGE. 

its  pleasures  ?"*  Let  me  tell  you,  he  was  a  very 
sensible  old  man — a  thing  that  can  rarely  be  said 
of  any  of  your  philosophers — who,  for  the  most 
part,  are  great  fools.  They  think  themselves 
wise,  indeed,  because  they  are  discontented, 
and  do  their  best,  not  only  to  be  miserable 
themselves,  but  to  persuade  every  body  else  to  be 
miserable  too.  They  pervert  and  poison  the  best 
pleasures  of  our  nature,  like  the  reptiles  that 
can  find  no  other  use  in  the  fairest  flowers,  except 
to  leave  on  them  their  venom.  They  are  cynical 
ill  natured  creatures,  and  do  nothing  but  grumble 
and  quarrel  with  a  world,  which  is  far  too  good 
for  them.  For  this,  I  maintain  it,  is  an  excellent 
world, — at  the  same  time,  I  think  it  is  only  good 
on  dry  land,  and  good  for  nothing  on  water. 

"  You  cannot  conceive  what  a  strange  sort 
of  feeling  it  is,  that  of  seeing,  for  the  first  time, 
the  shores  of  your  country  recede  from  your 
view,  and  launching  out  as  it.  were  on  the  broad 
ocean  of  life  and  salt  water.  I  could  have  been 
very  sentimental  about  it — only  I  grew  very  sick, 
and  such  was  the  tossing  and  tumbling  we 
sustained,  that  all  my  companions  in  misfortune 


THE  PASSAGE.  19 

shared  the  same  fate.  Certainly  sea  sickness, 
hke  death,  is  a  complete  leveller.  I  do  not  mean, 
merely  because  it  levels  every  body  flat  and  pros- 
trate, and  so  levels  all  the  persons — but  because  it 
levels  all  minds,  and  reduces  to  the  same  level 
all  distinctions  of  birth,  fortune,  education,  and 
character.  We  had  on  board  this  wretched  little 
packet  every  gradation  of  rank  and  character, 
from  the  peer  to  the  clown — from  the  grossest 
vulgarity  to  the  highest  refinement — from  the 
lowest  dullness  to  the  brightest  talent — from 
self-satisfied  ignorance  to  self-distrusting  genius ; 
but  all  lay  in  perfect  equality  of  mind,  condition 
and  misery — as  well  as  posture. 

"  Certainly,  but  for  sea  sickness,  the  melange 
on  board  our  packet  would  have  been  inexpressibly 
amusing.  First,  there  was  a  nobleman  whose 
deeds  and  virtues  are  an  honour  to  his  country — 
who  has  devoted  his  talents  and  fortune  to  found 
institutions  to  enlighten  distant  countries  and 

o 

ages — who  has  revived  once  more  the  silent 
schools  and  deserted  academies  of  Greece,  and 
thus,  in  return  for  that  guiding  light  which 
originally  emanated  from  thence,  has  reflected 


so  THE    PASSAGE. 

back  a  beam  on  the  spot  from  whence  it  sprung. 

I    need  not   say  it  was   Lord   G d.     In 

striking  opposition  to  this  truly  noble  British 
peer,  was  a  long  lank  deplorable  looking  French 
nobleman,  dressed  in  that  dirty  slovenly  huddled- 
up  style  in  which  all  ranks  of  that  polished 
nation  think  fit  to  attire  themselves  when  they 
travel.  His  withered  physiognomy  unwashed 
and  unshaven,  was  enveloped  in  a  night  cap, 
which  had  once  been  white,  on  the  top  of  which 
was  stuck  a  greasy  old  green  velvet  travelling 
cap ;  a  dirty  silk  handkerchief  loosely  tied  about 
his  scraggy  throat,  dirty  stockings  falling  in 
wrinkles  about  his  ankles,  shoes  which  seemed 
never  to  have  experienced  the  benefit  of  Warren's 
blacking,  and  a  beggarly  capote  completed  his 
apparel.  His  conversation  which  consisted  of 
little  else  than  such  exclamations,  or  rather  oaths, 
as  'Sacrel  Grand  Dieu!  PesteT  and  'DiableT 
with  which  he  interlarded  his  helpless  complaints 
and  lamentations,  was  agreeably  diversified  by 
the  disgusting  habit  of  spitting  all  over  the 
floor  of  the  deck  and  cabin  :  yet  this  man  was 
one  of  the  Chamber  of  Peers, — one  of  the  noblesse 
of  France  ! 


THE    PASSAGE.  21 

"  Then  we  had  a  French  Milliner,  whose 
terrors  about  the  '  Orage'  we  were  encounter- 
ing, and  the  '  Naufrage^  that  she  anticipated, 
for  the  wind  was  high  and  contrary,  were  most 
voluble  and  laughable;  while  with  qvierulous 
inconsistency  she  bestowed  the  most  unqualified 
abuse  upon  the  English  Packet,  English  Captain, 
and  all  the  English,  for  a  pack  of  '  Fourhes'  and 
'  Scelerats^  because  they  had  refused  to  sail 
yesterday  in  a  real  storm — in  which  no  ship 
could  leave  the  harbour. 

"  But  by  far  the  most  entertaining  person  on 
board  was  Miss  Biddy  Blossom.  Indeed  the 
whole  family  of  Blossoms  were  excellent  in  their 
way,  but  Miss  Biddy  was  the  flower  of  them  all. 
I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  her  bedizened 
dress,  her  incongruous  attempts  to  be  'hiligant' 
and  'haccomplished,''  and  the  enthusiastic  eager- 
ness she  expressed  to  go  to  Ruin,  (Rouen)  which 
called  forth  the  sly  assurance  that  she  was  in  the 
high  road  to  it.  When  young  Blossom,  her  bro- 
ther, who  laboured  hard  to  seem  a  man  of  fashion, 
and  talked  much  of  Bond-Street — as  well  he 
might,  for  it  afterwards  came  out  that  he  spent 
his  days  in  measuring  ribbons  there — expatiated 


22  THE    PASSAGE. 

in  sentimental  guise  upon  the  '  Holps,  those 
peelhisaes  of  natur.'  '  Ah  they  are  beautiful 
pelisses  indeed,"  exclaimed  Miss  Biddy,  '  real 
French  pelisses  !  I  would  not  for  all  the  world 
wear  any  thing  but  a  pelisse  of  nature  !  They 
are  quite  the  hot  tongue.'' 

"  What  did  you  say  about  hot  tongs,  Biddy  ?" 
said  her  father. 

"  La  papaw !""'  exclaimed  Biddy,  turning 
sharply  round  upon  Old  Blossom,  who,  with  his 
claret  coloured  coat,  his  snug  wig,  and  his  red 
face,  was  by  far  the  most  respectable  and  least 
ridiculous  person  of  the  party ;  because  he 
pretended  to  be  nothing  but  what  he  was ; — 
^  La  papaw  !' — and  strait  Miss  Biddy  began 
taking  him  to  task,  or  as  he  called  it  '  snub- 
bing him"*  for  his  '  wulgarity' — a  practice, 
indeed,  in  which  all  the  young  Blossoms  seemed 
to  delight;  while  the  youth  laughed  aloud 
at  his  father^s  hignerance.  But  the  demon 
of  sea-sickness  put  an  end  to  -our  amusement, 
and  reduced  us,  as  I  before  observed — Blossoms 
and  all — to  a  state  of  inanity.  It  is  amazing 
what  senseless  logs  we  all  became,  and  what 
selfish  creatures  it  made  of  us.     I  scarcely  think 


THE  PASSAGE.  ^5 

if  I  had  beea  told  that  one  half  of  the  creation 
had  been  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake,  it 
would  have  moved  me  to  the  least  feeling. 
Nothing  but  the  termination  of  our  voyage  and 
our  miseries  could  excite  the  smallest  interest ; 
and,  after  an  extremely  rough  passage  of  twenty- 
one  hours,  blessed  was  the  sight  of  the  long, 
lank,  petticoated  men  that  came  to  pilot  us  into 
Dieppe  harbour  ! — ^blessed  the  moment  in  which 
we  set  foot  on  the  shores  of  France,  (or  indeed 
on  any  shores,  for  all  would  have  been  ahke 
welcome),  but  still  more  blessed  was  that  happy 
period  when  a  French  bed  received  us,  after  all 
our  sufferings!  Most  striking,  indeed,  is  the 
transition  a  few  hours  spent  in  a  half-alive 
state  on  board  a  packet  make  in  every  object 
which  surrounds  one.  The  country,  the  people, 
the  language,  the  dresses,  the  manners,  the 
houses,  the  furniture — all  are  different.  It 
seems  as  if,  like  the  sleeper  in  the  Arabian  Tales, 
we  had  been  awakened  in  another  world.  But 
France  is  really  a  strange  country  ;  in  every 
thing  as  unlike  England  as  possible.  To  my 
unspeakable  amazement,  I  was  awakened  out  of 


24  THE    PASSAGE. 

my  sleep  this  morning,  by  the  gar9on  of  the  inn 
at  my  bed-side,  making  some  inquiry  about 
breakfast ;  nor  could  any  thing  I  could  say, 
persuade  him  it  was  possible  I  could  consider 
his  visit  as  a  piece  of  impertinence,  instead  of  a 
piece  of  very  polite  attention,  for  which  he 
intended  it. 

The  moment  we  set  foot  on  the  slippery 
rocks  in  the  harbour,  our  baggage  was  all  seized 
upon  piecemeal  by  a  parcel  of  old  women,  whose 
wisened  faces  and  grey  straggling  locks  formed 
a  curious  contrast  to  the  bright  coloured  cotton 
handkerchiefs  tied  round  their  heads.  These 
old  witches  carried  off  all  our  heavy  trunks  on 
their  backs  with  great  composure,  while  a  crowd 
of  great  strong  men  were  standing  idly  looking 
on.  In  the  streets,  again,  we  met  old  women 
driving  the  carts ;  and  in  the  inn  we  found 
young  men  sweeping  out  the  rooms  and  making 
the  beds.  In  eating,  nothing  can  be  more  dissi- 
milar to  our  habits.  Their  dinner  consists  of  at 
least  a  dozen  different  little  dishes,  or  rather 
plates  of  things,  instead  of  one  substantial  joint, 
and  the  fish  is  served  up  at  the  end  of  the  repast. 


THE    PASSAGE.  25 

while  the  cheese  forms  a  part  of  the  desert. 
Their  breakfasts  are  composed  of  wine,  or  else 
beer  and  meat.  When  we  asked  for  tea,  they 
brought  us  some  tea  leaves  boiled  in  a  pan  ;  and 
when  we  told  them  we  did  not  like  it  boiled, 
they  sent  it  up  infused  in  a  pitcher  of  cold 
water.*  They  produced  tumbler  glasses  for 
breakfast  cups,  and  baking  dishes  for  wash 
basins.  Instead  of  an  inn  with  clean,  comfort- 
able, small  unpretending  rooms,  we  had  huge 
raftered  chambers,  dirty  bare  brick  floors,  dingy 
gilded  cornices,  and  worn  out  silk  damask 
hangings.  In  church  we  found  the  people 
walking  about  and  talking ; — at  the  Spectacle 
they  were  sitting  with  as  much  mute  solemnity  as 
if  they  were  hearing  a  sermon,  though  the  actors 
were  performing  a  petite  piece  comique.  At  the 
seance  of  the  Chamber  des  Deputes,  in  Paris, 
that  grave  legislative  body  were  more  noisy, 
riotous,  and  disorderly,  than  a  parcel  of  quarrel- 
some school  boys;    and  such  was  the  clamour. 


•  Incidents  which  actually  happened  to  the  author  on 
going  abroad,  immediately  after  the  termination  of  the  war. 


26  THE  PASSAGE. 

confusion  and  rage  amongst  them,  that  we  expect- 
ed every  minute  to  see  them  begin  to  fight  it  out. 
Here  we  saw  a  party  of  men  in  the  street,  playing 
at  some  game,  as  boisterous  and  noisy  as  so  many 
little  boys  ;  and  further  on  we  saw  a  little  fellow 
smoking  a  pipe  by  himself,  with  all  the  solemn 
gravity  of  a  man  of  sixty — his  hair  tied  in  a 
queue,  a  cocked  hat  on  his  head,  silver  buckles 
in  his  shoes,  and  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
little  formal-cut  suit  of  clothes.  Conceive  our 
amazement  at  the  sight  of  a  French  Diligence, 
that  tremendous  machine  !  inside  of  which  I 
counted  no  less  than  sixteen  persons,  two  of 
whom  were  fiddling  for  the  diversion  of  the  rest. 
Nor  did  we  stare  less  at  the  huge  jack  boots  and 
long  floured  queues  of  the  French  Postillions. 
But  queues  seem  favorite  articles  here,  for  we  saw 
a  French  countryman  driving  a  pig,  with  a  long 
queue  and  powdered  head.  Our  astonishment 
was  still  greater  at  the  figures  of  the  Norman 
countrywomen,  with  their  tremendous  high  white 
coiffures,  their  tight  long  waisted  red  jackets 
and  mahogany  coloured  faces,  mounted  between 
two  great  panniers,  en  cavalier,   upon  asses — 


THE   PASSAGE.  27 

which  they  often  very  coolly  stopped  to  beg  a 
few  sous — while  their  necks  were  hung  round 
with  coral  beads  and  gold  chains,  and  their 
baskets  well  crammed  with  market  stuff! — 
These  women,  by  the  way,  though  broiled  and 
blinded  by  the  sun,  never  wear  a  hat  or  bonnet 
out  of  doors,  but  in  the  close  boxes  of  the  theatre, 
and  even  when  dining  at  the  Table  d'  Hote,  the 
unfortunate  females  were  all  suffocating  under 
immense  chapeaux. 

"  Their  agriculture  seems  to  be  carried  on  in 
the  same  novel  style.  All  their  ploughs  go  upon 
wheels,  and  their  harrows  have  wooden  teeth. 
We  have  repeatedly  seen  women  driving  the 
plough ;  and  one  of  our  friends  assured  me  he 
had  actually  once  seen  a  woman  drawing  it, — at 
least  forming  one  of  a  string  of  three  animals 
so  employed,  and  the  other  two  were  an  ass  and 
a  cow  We  met  a  woman  riding  astride  upon 
the  bare  back  of  one  cart  horse  and  whipping 
on  the  rest;  and  often  have  we  seen  the  fair 
sex  carrying  the  dung  into  the  fields  on  their 
backs,  and  spreading  it  over  the  ground  with 
their  Jiands. 


28  THE  PASSAGE. 

"  They  give  you  nothing  in  France,  not  even 
a  glass  of  cold  water,  without  asking  to  be  paid 
for  it ;  and  if  you  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes  in 
a  room  at  a  post-house,  they  bring  in  a  regular 
charge  for  the  use  of  the  apartment. 

"  But  my  paper  and  your  patience  would 
fail,  were  I  to  tell  you  one  half  of  the  strange 
sights  and  proceedings  we  saw  during  a  single 
day  in  France.  I  also  spare  you  all  descrip- 
tion of  the  beautiful  windings  of  the  Seine,  by 
v/hose  course  we  journeyed ;  of  the  views  we 
beheld, — of  the  ancient  cathedral  of  Rouen,  the 
unrivalled  Gothic  church  of  St.  Ouen,  the 
tomb  where  '  the  lion  heart'  of  our  Richard  is 
said  to  slumber  in  dust ;  of  the  spot  where 
Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt  for  a  witch  ;  of  Mount 
St.  Catherine,  its  ruined  chapel  and  its  prospect; 
of  the  bridge  of  boats  ;  of  the  Museum,  full  of 
bad  paintings ;  of  the  curious  little  shops  without 
windows,  exactly  such  as,  I  believe,  were  common 
in  England  two  hundred  years  ago ;  of  the  narrow, 
dirty,  dark,  dull,  miserable  streets  ;  the  high, 
antique,  projecting,  tottering-looking  houses,  in 
which  every  story  jutting  out  further,  amicably 
makes  nearer  advances  to  its  opposite  neighbour. 


THE    PASSAGE.  29 

In  short,  I  spare  you  a  description  of  all  the 
curiosities  of  the  curious  old  city  of  Rouen. 

"  I  will  stop  only  to  confide  to  you  my 
unspeakable  disappointment  at  the  sight  of  a 
vineyard,  which  we  beheld,  for  the  first  time,  a 
few  leagues  beyond  Rouen,  and  which  I  had 
expected  to  be  the  most  beautiful  and  luxuriant 
object  in  the  world — but  it  is  frightful.  It  is 
nothing  better  than  a  dirty-looking  field,  planted 
with  little  low  vines,  like  stunted  currant  bushes. 
A  turnip  field  is  indisputably  a  much  prettier 
object. 

"  Our  road  led  us  by  the  deserted  palace  of 
St.  Germains,  which  stands  a  melancholy  monu- 
ment of  fallen  greatness  and  regal  splendour. 
Its  once  magnificent  halls,  the  scene  of  the 
courtly  chivalry  of  Francis  the  First,  by 
whom  it  was  built — the  long  range  of  ruined 
apartments  and  Chapel,  which  served  as  the 
last  asylum  of  our  abdicated  James  II.  who 
here  ended  his  unlamented  and  inglorious  days, 
— the  dilapidated  Cabinet  of  Louis  XIV.  and 
the  boudoir  of  the  Duchesse  de  la  Valliere, 
awakened   many   an    interesting   remembrance. 


so  THE    PASSAGE. 

What  would  the  vain,  the  all-conquering,  the 
grand  Louis  have  said,  could  he  have  seen 
Prussian  and  English  soldiers  revelling  in  his 
grands  salons !  Yet  the  doors  were  still  chalked 
with  the  names  of  the  British  regiments  and 
companies  which  had  been  so  lately  stationed 
here  ;  and  their  recent  orgies  were  still  apparent 
in  the  half-burnt  fire-wood  scattered  about,  and 
the  coarse  wooden  benches  and  tables,  stained 
with  their  tobacco  and  liquor. 

"  The  celebrated  view  from  the  terrace  of  St. 
Germains,  though  rich  and  extensive,  is  not  to 
be  compared  to  that  from  Windsor  Castle,  or 
Richmond  Hill. 

"  At  last  we  beheld  the  gilded  dome  of  the 
Hotel  des  Invalids  glittering  in  the  sun.  Paris 
lay  before  us — that  strange  theatre  of  anarchy  and 
despotism, — of  gaiety  and  carnage, — of  vanity 
and  crime !  We  drove  through  the  noble 
barrier  of  L'Etoile,  and  the  Champs  Elysees; 
and  here  we  are  at  the  Hotel  des  Bourbons, 
Rue  de  la  Paix." 


CHAPTER  III. 


FRANCE. 


Your  Frenchman  is  a  strange   composition ; — his  life    . 
is  a  jest. 


It  was  no  part  of  the  plan  of  our  travellers 
to  make  a  long  stay  in  Paris,  nor  is  it  any  part  of 
ours  to  follow  them  through  the  well  known 
round  of  its  sights.  The  public  buildings  and 
institutions,  the  national  museums,  the  private 
collections  of  works  of  art,  the  Louvre,  and  the 
shops  completely  occupied  their  mornings ;  the 
theatres,  the  promenades,  the  public  gardens,  and 
the  cafFes  formed  the  varied  amusement  of  their 
evenings.      The  novelty  of  a   Parisian  life   is 


32  THE    PASSAGE. 

delightful  to  a  stranger :  it  is  one  continued 
intoxication  of  the  mind.  A  month  passed 
rapidly  away  in  the  most  amusing  whirl  of 
dissipation,  which,  unlike  most  hours  so  spent, 
left  behind  them  a  thousand  delightful  and 
instructive  remembrances. 

Once  more  they  set  out  on  their  travels.  We 
shall  favour  our  readers  with  some  account  of 
their  adventures  and  observations,  culled  from 
the  letters  of  our  heroine  to  her  sister ;  taking 
the  liberty— which  we  suppose  they  will,  in  turn, 
take  with  our  own  lucubrations, — of  passing 
over   whatever   we   deem  to   be   uninteresting. 

EXTRACT 

FROM 

LETTER  II. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

"  London  goes  a  long  way  out  of  town  with 
you.  There  is  no  end  of  the  rows  of  houses  ;  a 
stranger  would  suppose  he  was  in  it  miles  before 
he  enters  it — but  Paris  begins  and  ends  with 


FRANCE.  38 

Paris ;  and  with  Paris  all  amusement  also  ends. 
An  air  of  desertion  and  dreariness  immediately 
succeeds.      Even  on  the  great  high  roads,  no 
crossing  stage  coaches  flying  along ;   no  crowds 
of  carriages,  gigs,  and  vehicles  of  every  descrip- 
tion ;     no     dashing    horsemen    nor    thronging 
pedestrians  cover  the  few  great  avenues  to  the 
French    metropolis,    as    they    overspread    the 
innumerable   labyrinth  of  crossing  roads    that 
branch  out  of  our  great  city.     Paris  is  but  the 
capital   of  one   country — but    London    is    the 
capital  of  the  world.      Nor   does   the  scenery 
of  the  country  compensate  for   this   unnatural 
absence  of  life  and  motion.     There  never  was  a 
country  so  devoid  of  beauty  and  interest,  or  so 
utterly  unpicturesque  as    "  La   belle  France.'' 
The  long  undeviating  strait  line  of  the  grande 
route,  paved  with  dislocating  stones,  and  bordered 
with    formal  rows  of  dwindled  scrubby  trees, 
extends,  in  perpetuity  of  weariness,  through  a 
bare  unenclosed  monotonous  country,    ill  culti- 
vated—in dirty  patches  of  dwarfish    vines   or 
corn — without  hedges,  or  fields,  or  pastures,  or 
cattle — without    cottages,    or   farm    houses,    or 

D 


34  FRANCE. 

villas,  or  country  seats — without  rural  sights  or 
rural  sounds.  The  whole  face  of  the  country 
bears  the  marks  of  slovenly  neglect,  of  heartless 
reluctant  labour — of  desertion  and  discontent. 

The  country  people  live  congregated  together 
in  villages,  generally  built  like  little  towns,  of 
one  narrow  street,  deep  in  filth,  and  lined  with 
high,  dirty,  dilapidated  houses,  each  of  which, 
perhaps,  may  be  inhabited  by  three  or  four 
different  families,  and  the  whole  present  the  most 
disgusting  appearance  of  misery  and  decay.  The 
formal  chateaux  which  occasionally  stand  close  to 
these  miserable  little  towns,  are  always  incon- 
ceivably ugly,  and  almost  invariably  ruinous. 
What  a  contrast  to  the  smiling  cottages,  the 
neat  gardens,  the  snug  farm  houses,  the  rural 
villages,  the  beautiful  gentlemen^s  seats  sur- 
rounded with  parks  and  noble  trees,  the  green 
fields  covered  with  cattle,  the  trim  hedges,  the 
rich  cultivation,  the  lawns,  and  woods,  and 
gardens — the  beauty,  and  prosperity,  and  embel- 
lishment that  animate  the  prospect  in  merry 
England  ! 

"  Such  were  our  reflections,  (a  poor  disap- 
pointed set  of  travellers),  as  we  journeyed  through 


FRANCE.  S5 

the  dreary  lands  of  France.  No  longer  did 
we  wonder  that,  with  the  French, — Paris  is 
the  whole  world — the  centre  of  all  attraction — 
— the  seat  of  all  enjoyment — and  that  the 
"  campagne""'  is  but  another  name  for  banishment. 
In  vain  did  we  look  for  that  gaiety  and  thought- 
less mirth  we  had  been  taught  to  consider  a 
national  attribute  of  the  French  people  We 
saw  no  peasants  dancing  under  trees — no  parties 
of  young  and  old  singing  and  playing  after  their 
work  at  their  cottage  doors — no  sounds  of 
merriment  and  glee  proceeding  from  their 
ruinous  and  cheerless  habitations.  On  Sunday, 
indeed,  the  people,  especially  the  women,  were 
dressed  fine,  looked  smart  and  coquettish,  and 
wore  more  the  air  of  a  fete.  But  except  in  their 
dress,  Sunday  seemed  little  regarded.  The 
labourers  were  working,  the  carts  driving,  and 
the  country  people  ploughing  as  usual.  The 
churches  were  empty  and  the  shops  open. — 
Punch  and  such  other  shews  were  publicly 
performing,  even  during  the  hours  of  morning 
service,  and  the  Marionettes  were  enacting  their 
wooden  dramas  at  the  very  church  doors.  To 
D  2 


36  FRANCE. 

some  it  might  be  a  day  of  amusement ;  to  none, 
it  seemed  one  of  piety. 

There  is,  however,  one  point  in  which  the 
EngHsh  of  all  ranks  would  do  well  to  imitate 
the  French.  They  are,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest  uniformly  attentive,  accommodating,  and 
polite,  about  those  trifles  which,  after  all,  in 
their  continual  recurrence,  make  up  a  great  part 
of  the  sum  of  human  existence.  They  seem  to 
have  a  real  pleasure  in  obliging,  and  shew  an 
alacrity  in  rendering  any  little  service,  and  a 
complaisance  and  politeness  of  manner  in  per- 
forming it,  which  are  particularly  pleasing  and 
prepossessing  to  strangers. 

"  Another  peculiarity  is  very  striking  in  the 
lower  and  middle  classes  in  France — that  they 
all  appear  perfectly  satisfied  with  their  condition  ; 
or,  at  least,  never  dream  of  rising  above  it. 
There  is  none  of  that  envy,  that  aspiring  to 
emulate  the  class  above  them,  that  aping  of 
their  superiors,  that  is  so  universal  in  England. 
The  countryman  never  seems  to  repine,  because 
he  is  a  labourer  of  the  earth ;  the  farmer  never 
pretends  to  be  a  gentlemen ;   the  artizan  never 


FRANCE.  37 

ranks  himself  with  the  merchant ;  the  Bourgeois 
never  seeks  to  be  considered  a  man  of  fashion ; 
consequently  the  higlier  orders  meet  the  lower 
with  more  familiarity  than  they  do,  or  can  do, 
in  England,  where  there  is  perpetual  danger  of 
being:  confounded  Avith  them,  both  in  their  own 
estimation  and  that  of  others.  Yet,  if  these 
classes  of  society  in  England  escape  the  real 
evils  of  unsatisfied  wishes,  craving  ambition,  and 
vain  longings  after  greatness,  who  would  wish  to 
deprive  them  of  that  strongest  motive  for  human 
excellencies  and  exertion — honourable  ambition  ? 
The  conviction  that,  to  the  very  lowest  rank  of 
the  community,  the  door  is  open  to  the  highest 
wealth,  honour,  and  distinction — and  that  talents, 
genius,  industry,  and  virtue  will  force  their  way 
to  them,  is  a  stimulus  felt  through  every  class 
in  England ; — and  every  man  aspiring  to  reach 
something  above  him — to  an  increase  of  riches, 
rank,  or  consideration,  is  spurred  on  to  continual 
exertion,  and  kept  ahve  and  happy  by  the  great 
cordial  of  life — Hope. 

"  There  are,  however,  certain  absurdities  in 
France,  which  in   England   wc    could  scarcely 


38  FRANCE. 

believe  it  possible  to  exist.  An  instance  of 
this  occurs  to  my  recollection  at  this  moment 
One  morning,  while  we  were  in  Paris,  our 
Lacquey  de  Place  did  not  appear  as  usual. 
Breakfast  passed,  the  carriage  drove  to  the  door, 
still  no  lacquey,  and  Colonel  Cleveland,  in  a 
passion,  had  sent  to  engage  another,  when,  pant- 
ing with  exertion,  the  gentleman  appeared.  '  He 
was  very  sorry — he  begged  ten  thousand  pardons 
—he  had  hoped  to  have  got  '  his  little  afFair"* 
over  sooner.'  '  Your  affairs,  you  scoundrel, 
what  are  your  affairs  to  us  ?  Do  you  think  we 
are  to  sit  waiting  here,  while  you  are  running 
after  your  own  affairs  ?''  '  Pardonnez  moi. 
Monsieur,'  said  the  lacquey  with  a  low  bow,  and 
laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  '  but  it  was  an 
affair  of  honour  !'  And  the  man  had  actually 
been  fighting  a  duel  that  morning  with  swords, 
with  another  lacquey,  in  consequence  of  some 
quarrel  while  waiting  for  us  at  the  French 
Opera  the  night  before  !  On  inquiry,  we  found 
this  was  by  no  means  extraordinary,  and  that 
two  shoe-blacks  have  been  known  to  fight  a 
regular  duel,  with  all  the  punctilios  of  men  of 


FRANCE.  39 

fashion.  The  beauty  of  fighting  with  swords 
rather  than  pistols,  seems  to  me  to  be  great ; 
for  though  often  piques,  I  understand  combatants 
of  all  ranks  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  are 
rarely  killed. 

But,  to  return  to  our  travels,  "  Fontainbleau"' 
was  our  "  way  in  France,""  and  a  weary  way  it 
was.  To  be  sure,  the  palace  of  Fontainbleau 
is  a  very  fine  palace,  so  are  all  the  French 
palaces — far  finer  than  any  in  England.  But  I 
own  I  am  one  of  those  who  see  our  national 
inferiority  in  point  of  palaces  with  the  most  philo- 
sophic composure.  Let  France  boast  of  her 
palaces — England  of  her  cottages  !  I  never 
left  a  palace  in  my  life  without  giving  thanks 
that  1  was  not  obliged  to  live  in  it — that  I  was 
neither  born  a  Queen,  a  Princess,  nor  a  Lady 
of  the  Court — the  three  most  miserable  creatures, 
I  am  convinced,  under  the  sun.  In  the  palace 
of  Fontainbleau  we  saw  the  fine  rooms,  fitted  up 
with  the  most  splendid  furniture  and  decorations, 
which  were  the  last  residence  of  Buonaparte. 
Beside  a  couch  stood  the  little  table  on  which 
he  signed   his   abdication,   and   there    was  the 


40  FRANCE. 

memorable  and  marvellous  pen  with  which  he 
signed  it — and  which,  though  a  hundred  times 
bought  and  carried  away  by  our  countrymen, 
always  contrives  to  find  its  way  back  to  the 
same  scrutoire.  We  saw  the  seat  in  the  garden 
where  he  used  to  brood  for  hours  in  moody  silence 
over  his  fallen  fortunes.  We  also  saw  the  apart- 
ments in  which  he  imprisoned  the  poor  old  Pope 
for  eighteen  months — during  which  his  Holiness 
never  crossed  the  threshold.  He  had  carriages 
at  his  command,  but  he  refused  to  go  out  a 
guarded  prisoner.  The  haughty  insolence  and 
contempt  with  which  he  was  sometimes  treated 
by  Buonaparte,  in  his  visits,  as  related  to  us, 
or  rather  confessed,  by  the  man  who  shewed  us 
the  palace,  (a  staunch  partizan  and  old  servant 
of  Buonaparte's,  and  like  all  his  old  servants, 
just  going  to  be  turned  out  of  his  place,)  gave 
me  a  worse  opinion  of  him  than  I  had  ever  before 
entertained.  He  seldom  or  never  visited  him, 
indeed,  except  when  he  had  some  point  to  gain, 
and  when  he  could  not  succeed  in  it  either  by 
promises  or  threats,  he  used  to  break  out  in  fits 
of  wanton  rage,    and  treat  the  poor  old  man 


FRANCE.  41 

with  the  bitterest  invective  and  insult.  But 
Buonaparte  has  now  fallen,  and  we  will  let  his 
faults  fall  with  him.  He  laid  out  a  "  Jardin 
Angiois,"  which,  though  the  prettiest  I  have 
seen,  is  any  thing  but  "  Anglois."  They  cut 
down  some  venerable  old  trees  to  make  it  more 
"Anglois,"  and  embellished  it  with  marble 
basins  full  of  gold  and  silver  fishes,  and  gilt 
rails,  and  plenty  of  statues.  Nothing  certainly 
ever  was  so  hideous  as  the  true  French  gardens. 
We  passed  on  the  road  to  Fontainbleau  the  grand 
chateau  of  Field  Marshal  the  Duke  of  Ragusa, 
a  great  triste,  forlorn  looking  abode.  Inside,  I 
make  no  doubt,  it  may  be  very  fine,  but  outside 
it  is  most  dolorous ;  surrounded  by  dirty  miry 
lanes,  formal  avenues,  clipped  trees,  and  me- 
lancholy rows  of  Lombardy  poplars,  drawn  up  in 
strait  lines,  like  the  Marshal's  files  of  grenadiers. 
Every  thing  is  marked  by  a  total  absence  of 
neatness,  elegance,  and  taste — of  cheerfulness, 
bloom  and  beauty.  In  fact  we  have  visited 
many  French  chateaux,  and  found  them  all 
unsurpassable  in  ugliness  and  discomfort.  In 
general  tliey  present  the  appearance  of  poverty, 


42  FRANCE. 

neglect  and  decay — ^but  even  when  modern  and 
when  money  has  not  been  spared,  as  in  this  case,  it 
is  laid  out  in  formal  flagged  terraces,  rising  above 
each  other  in  regular  stages — in  hideous  water 
works  and  waterfalls  stotting  down  stone  steps 
— in  cockle-shell  parterres — artificial  mounts, 
mutilated  busts  and  ugly  statues.  Strait  lines  of 
soft  sandy  walks,  in  which  every  step  sinks 
deep,  divide  these  beauties.  There  are  no 
parks  or  lawns — and  if  you  do  see  a  little 
square  grass  plot,  it  is  covered  with  weeds. 
They  clip  their  trees  instead  of  their  grass. 
But  in  fact,  there  are  no  trees.  Even  close 
up  to  the  windows  of  a  nobleman''s  house, 
the  trees  in  the  pleasure  grounds  are  lopped  into 
bare  poles,  for  the  sake  of  faggots.  Nothing 
would  reconcile  me  so  soon  to  English  coal  fires 
as  the  state  of  the  unhappy  trees  in  France. 
Until  we  saw  the  forest  of  Fontainbleau,  where 
trees  are  preserved  for  a  Royal  Chasse— -I  actu- 
ally saw  nothing  deserving  of  the  name  of  a 
tree  in  France.  But  even  there,  the  trees, 
though  extremely  old  and  strikingly  grotesque 
and    picturesque  in    their    forms,   are    stunted 


FRANCE.  43 

and  dwarfish,  and  do  not  grow  into  fine  majes- 
tic timber.  As  for  a  grass  field,  I  have  never 
seen  one.  There  are  neither  meadows  nor 
pastures.  One  wonders  where  the  animals 
are  fed — and  such  animals  !  such  cattle  !  such 
sheep  !  such  pigs  !  Lean,  gaunt,  long  legged, 
long  backed,  ravenous  looking  creatures — more 
like  wolves  than  fat  bacon ; — and  poor,  miserable, 
scrubby  ragged  sheep — to  which  all  the  vitupe- 
rative epithets  in  VirgiPs  Bucolics  might  be 
applied,  and  yet  convey  no  adequate  idea  of 
their  poverty  and  wretchedness  To  every  one 
who  has  the  least  of  an  agricultural  eye,  it  is 
offensive  to  behold  the  miserable  state  of  culti- 
vation and  the  wretched  stock  in  France.  I  say 
nothing  of  the  picturesque,  for  it  would  puzzle 
even  Dr.  Syntax  himself  to  find  any  thing 
approaching  to  it." 

The  rest  of  the  fair  writer''s  letter  we  take 
the  liberty  to  suppress — from  the  supposition 
that  the  details  of  a  journey  through  a  country 
so  dull  to  the  traveller,  cannot  possibly  prove 
very  entertaining  to  tlie  reader. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


DISASTERS. 


Wights  ! — that  by  land  and  water  travel. 
Your  dire  adventures  I  unravel. 


LETTER  III. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

"  An  adventure !  O  rare  and  inexpressible 
felicity,  in  this  smooth  and  safely  rolling  age — 
have  I  at  last  met  with  an  adventure  ! — and 
such  an  adventure  ! — O  ye  hills,  and  above  all 
ye  ruts  of  Burgundy,  it  is  to  you  I  owe  this 
piece  of  good  fortune — the  happiness  of  narrowly 
escaping  breaking  my  neck,  and  actually 
breaking  my  two  little  fingers.  Slowly  and 
heavily  did  we  rumble  oA,  along  the  interminable 


DISASTERS.  45 

vista  of  the  French  Pave— one  filthy  post  house, 
and  still  more  filthy  village,  still  succeeding  to 
another,  more  filthy  and  wretched  still — without 
one  object  or  event  to  break  the  dreary  monotony 
of  the  way,  till  at  last,  in  descending  one  of  the 
steep  hills  of  '  La  Haute  Bourgogne,'  a  tremen- 
dous jolt  severed  in  pieces  the  splinter  bar,  which 
pierced  one  of  the  horses — the  animal  infuriated 
with  pain  and  fear,  bounded  forwards,  the  vile 
French  tackle,  pieced  and  patched  together  with 
ropes,  gave  way,  the  pole  struck  the  leaders, 
and  down  the  hill  were  we  precipitated — and 
overturned  at  the  bottom  with  a  tremendous 
crash,  in  the  ditch.  There  we  lay.  I  thought 
we  should  have  been  smothered  with  mud.  At 
last  we  did  get  extricated,  and,  wonderftU  to 
relate,  neither  ourselves  nor  any  of  the  horses 
had  sustained  any  serious  injury.  Colonel 
Cleveland  was  a  little  bruised,  Mrs.  Cleveland 
a  good  deal  shaken,  and  I,  who  was  undermost, 
found  my  neck  somewhat  twisted  awry.  On 
examination,  it  afterwards  appeared  that  I  had 
broken — (1st.)  one  collar  bone,  and  (2d.)  two 
fingers  of  my  left  hand.'     The  servants  behind. 


46  DISASTERS. 

who  were  thrown  off  like  shuttlecocks,  had  been 
received  into  the  soft,  rich,  savoury  bed  of  a  large 
dunghill,  from  which  they  rose  perfectly  sound, 
at  least,  if  not  particularly  sweet.  But  the  car- 
riage was  completely  shattered,  and  by  no 
contrivance  could  be  dragged  further.  We 
were  a  league  and  a  half  from  the  post  we  had 
quitted,  (a  wretched  hole  !),  and  two  leagues  from 
that  to  which  we  were  going.  It  was  quite  dusk 
when  the  accident  happened,  and  night  was  now 
fast  closing  in.  In  this  predicament,  we  were 
standing  by  the  side  of  the  broken  vehicle,  delibe- 
rating what  to  do,  and  had  determined  upon 
sending  the  postboy  forward  on  one  of  the  horses 
to  the  nearest  village,  'une  bonne  demie  Lieu,"*  in 
advance,  to  hire  a  cart  while  we  walked  on  to 
meet  it,  leaving  our  servant  in  charge  of  the 
carriage, — ^but  just  as  this  resolution  was  taken, 
we  beheld  an  English  carriage  driving  down  the 
same  unlucky  hill,  with  equal  speed  but  better 
fortune,  for  it  reached  the  bottom  in  safety,  and 
would  have  continued  its  rapid  course  but  for 
the  natural  sense  of  the  postillions,  who  stopped 
of  their  own  accord  ;  for  the  two  men  servants 


DISASTERS.  47 

behind  stared  at  us  with  gaping  mouths  and 
eyes,  but  took  no  other  notice  of  us  ;  and  their 
master,  who  was  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage, 
did  not  observe  us  at  all.  After  a  short  parley 
between  the  postillions  of  the  two  carriages,  a 
glass  was  slowly  let  down,  something  like  a  fur 
cap  appeared  at  the  window,  and  a  voice  was 
heard  to  say  with  remarkable  deliberation, — 
'  Gregory  !  Gregory  !  What  are  these  fellows 
jabbering  about  ?  Why  dont  they  drive  on  ? 
Gregory  !   I  say.' 

••'  Gregory  no.w  lowered  his  person  from  his 
elevated  seat  behind,  and  going  up  to  the  window 
explained  the  accident.  '  What  !^-oh  ! — over- 
turned ! — carriage  broken  ! — English  ladies  in 
the  ditch  did  you  say,  Gregory  ?  Well  then, 
open  the  door — I  must  get  out  ;"*  and  a  tall 
figure,  enveloped  in  an  immense  cloak,  did 
actually  get  out,  and  advanced  to  us.  It  was 
so  dark  that  it  was  impossible  to  see  any  thing 
further  than  the  cloak  and  cap,  but  the  envelope 
seemed  of  large  dimensions,  and  very  politely 
offered  to  convey  us  to  the  next  post — an  offer 
we  instantly  accepted.     Mrs.    Cleveland  and  I 


48  DISASTERS. 

accordingly  got  into  the  carriage  with  this 
large  figure.  Colonel  Cleveland  and  '  Gregory' 
mounted  the  seat  behind,  and  the  other  servant 
of  the  unknown  remained  with  ours. 

"  Conceive  the  romance  of  this  !  Shut  up  in 
a  carriage,  and  at  night,  with  an  Englishman 
whom  I  had  never  before  seen — ^nay,  whom  I 
had  not  yet  seen,  for  it  was  dark; — who  had 
come  to  my  rescue — -just  in  the  critical  moment 
of  my  first  and  only  adventure — my  preserver 
from  desertion  and  distress  ! — my  deliverer  from 
the  ditch !  It  is  a  thousand  pities  I  cannot 
record  our  conversation,  or  rather  the  conver- 
sation that  passed,  for  my  share  of  it  scarcely 
amounted  to  monosyllables; — (but  you  know  that 
is  quite  correct)  ; — never  to  open  my  lips  was 
interesting  and  modest,  and  quite  a  la  heroine. 
Mrs.  Cleveland  indeed  left  no  pauses  in  her  narra- 
tive of  this  afflicting  catastrophe, — so  that  I  fear 
my  touching  silence  was  not  sufficiently  noticed 
— and  scarcely  could  my  deliverer  find  room  to 
interpose  the  few  necessary  responses — which  he 
uttered  with  remarkable  deliberation.  In  this 
most  interesting  and  romantic  situation   did  we 


DISASTERS,  49 

reach  the  next  post,  when  Hght  broke  in   upon 
us,  from  a  dark  stable  lanthorn,  held  by  a  dirty 
gar9on.       My   deliverer,    in    attempting     most 
gallantly  to  hand  me  out,  grasped  with   such 
fervour  my    two    unfortunate    broken    fingers, 
that  I  withdrew  my  hand  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and 
a  most  unequivocal  expression  of  dissatisfaction, 
which  had  such  an  effect  upon  him,  that  down  he 
tumbled  among  the  dirty  straw  in  the  stable  yard 
— overset  perhaps  with  the  said  bodily  jerk — 
or  with  the  mental  shock  of  my  displeasure — or 
haply  with  the  first  blaze  of  my  charms,  as  seen 
by  the  dark  lanthorn— who  knows!      Be  that 
as  it  may,  he  was  soon  erected  upon  his  legs  again, 
with  the  assistance  of  'Gregory' — and  I  having 
in  the  mean  time  got  out  upon  mine,  we  entered 
the  post  house— and  I  beheld— I   beheld— yes, 
Georgiana,  I  beheld — a  Lord  !     My  preserver 
was  a  Lord  ! — for    Gregory  called    him    '  my 
Lord !'      Could  any  thing  be  better  adapted  for 
romance?      His   figure   was   portly  and   com- 
manding—perhaps what  a  satirist   might   call 
corpulent— but  I  call  it  important  and  great. 
He  was  a  great  Lord,  and  he  moved  with  great 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  DISASTERS. 

dignity  and   deliberation  ;  that  was  all  I  could 
see,  for  my  neck  still  continued  twisted  on  one 
side,  and  he  was  on  the  other  ;  and  the  fixed 
and  determined  manner  with  which  I  averted  my 
face  from  him,   must  have  given  him  a  high 
opinion   of  my  modesty  and  reserve.      I  now, 
however,  began  to  complain  of  my  twisted  neck 
and  broken  fingers,  and,   with  the  most  tender 
sympathy  and  compassion,  he  seemed  to  feel  for 
my  before  unknown  sufferings,  and  a  surgeon 
was  sent  for.      The  operations  upon  the  collar 
bone  and  the  fingers  not  being  very  complex  or 
difficult,  were  successfully  performed ; — the  rest 
of  the  party  went  to  supper,  and  1  went  to  bed. 
There    never    certainly   was-  a   heroine   so 
fortunate — (for  a  heroine  I  must  be) — not  only 
to  be  overturned  on  the  hills  of  Burgundy,  and 
to  break  one  collar  bone  and  two  fingers  (as  if  on 
purpose  to  make  me  interesting,  and  oblige  me 
to  wear  my  arm  in  a  sling) — and  to  have  a  Lord 
— a   great  Lord — Lord   Lumbercourt  himself, 
come  to  my  rescue  and  deliverance ; — ^but  also  to 
have  the  carriage  so  broken  that  it  will  take  a 
whole  day  before  the  bungling  blacksmiths  of 


DISASTERS.  51 

this  little  town  can  patch  it  up  to  go  on  at  all ! 
So  that  '  pour  comble'  of  my  good  fortune,  it  is 
settled  that  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  are  to 
proceed  in  a  chaise  de  poste,   the  only  sort  of 
vehicle  that  is  to  be  had  for  travellers  without 
their  own  carriage  in  France,  and  that  I  alone 
should  be  shut   up  with   Lord   Lumbercourt, 
tete     a    tete,  in   his  easy   carriage,    in    order 
that  my  broken  collar  bone  may  be  less  jolted. 
The  foolish  French  surgeon  wanted  to  keep  us 
here  all  day — for  his  own  benefit  rather  than 
mine — ^but    I   would    not    hear    of    remaining. 
Mrs.  Cleveland,  (considerate  woman!)  persists  in 
refusing  to  incommode  Lord  Lumbercourt,  (she 
means  all  the  time  herself),  by  taking  a  third 
seat  in  the  carriage: — in  fact,  his  Lordship  does 
fill  no  inconsiderable  share  in  his  own  vehicle 
himself.       He    is    not    young,     Georgy — fifty 
winters,  at  least,  must  have  settled  on  his  manly 
brow.     But  that  is  all  the  better — it  is  new.     In 
romances,  young  ladies  always  fall  in  love  with 
young  men  ;  and,  to  make  the  matter  more  tire- 
some, so  do  they  also  in  real  life.  But  my  romance 
shall  be   different.      On    the  strength  of  this 
E  2 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 


52  DISASTERS. 

adventure  I  shall  set  up  for  a  heroine  myself — 
and  then  what  a  hero  have  I  got  in  Lord 
Lumbercourt ! — But  I  am  just  setting  off  with 
my  hero,  so  adieu  !" 


Lyons,  Thursday. 

"  Your  imagination  must  aid  you  to  conceive, 
my  dear  Georgiana,  the  delightful  conversation 
that  engrossed  us  by  the  way.  The  way  did 
not  seem  long  ;  in  fact  it  was  short.  Yet  it  was 
so  late  before  we  had  set  off,  that  it  was  evening 
when  we  reached  the  barrier  of  Chalons  sur 
Saone,  when  we  were  stopped,  and  informed,  to 
our  great  amazement,  that  we  could  not  enter 
the  town,  because  the  sun  had  set !  Nor  was 
this  strange  exclusion  confined  to  foreigners. 
Two  French  Voiturier  carriages,  filled  with 
French  people,  were  likewise  shut  out.  Loud 
and  noisy  were  their  complaints  and  remon- 
strances. At  length,  after  much  parley,  we 
were  all  told  we  might  go  quite  round  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  and  enter  by  the  south 


DISASTERS. 


5S 


side,  which  we  were  actually  obliged  to  do — 
though  how  we  should  do  less  harm  to  Chalons 
by  entering  it  at  the  south  than  the  north  side, — 
or  how  a  few  peaceable  travellers  should  do  any 
harm  by  entering,  at  any  side,  into  a  little 
country  town  in  the  very  centre  of  France,  and 
in  a  season  of  profound  peace,  would  puzzle  any 
rational  being  to  discover — and  all  this  because 
the  sun  was  set,  although  it  was  still  broad  day- 
light !  But  reason  and  remonstrance  were  vain, 
and  after  a  most  tedious  circuit  by  a  road  so  bad 
that  we  could  only  proceed  at  a  foot's  pace, 
and  were  every  moment  in  danger  of  a  second 
'  adventure,'  we  entered  Chalons  on  its  southern 
side. 

"  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland,  who  had  kept 
up  with  us  in  their  droll  little  vehicle,  were  all 
along  taken  for  '  Le  Valet'  and  '  La  Fille'  of  Milor 
and  Miladi — so  you  see  I  am  Miladi  already — 
happy  omen !  Nay  more — as  we  have  resolved  to 
pi*oceed  down  the  Saone  to  Lyons,  in  consequence 
of  my  broken  bones  and  the  broken  carriage — 
Lord  Lumbercourt,  notwithstanding  his  aversion 
to  the  water,    and  fear  of  the  gout,  determined 


54  DISASTERS. 

to  accompany   us — and   after  breakfast  we  all 
embarked  in  the  Coche  d'  Eau  for  Macon. 

"  It  is  really  strange  the  suddenness,  with  which 
you  are  sometimes  abroad,  thrown  into  the  most 
intimate  and  domestic  intercourse  with  a  perfect 
stranger. — We  never  saw  Lord  Lumbercourt 
till  he  picked  us  upon  the  road,  andne\er  since 
have  we  separated  for  a  single  moment  from 
morning  till  night.  We  breakfast,  dine,  sup, 
travel,  and  live  together,  as  if  we  were  the 
nearest  connexions.  What  with  the  charms  of 
his  conversation,  and  the  amusing  variety  of 
French  people  on  board,  our  voyage  was  very 
pleasant.  There  was  an  old  French  gentleman 
with  the  dullest,  heaviest,  red  face  imaginable, 
who  after  a  little  common  place  conversation  had 
passed  between  us,  between  every  pinch  of 
snuff,  of  which  he  took  an  immense  quantity, 
kept  addressing  me  with  the  most  rapturous  and 
sentimental  speeches  possible,  which  were  deli- 
vered with  a  gravity  and  composure,  and  an 
unmoved  countenance,  that  were  inexpressibly 
ludicrous.  He  declared  that  he  had  great 
reason  to  bless  his  destiny  that  had  brought  him 


DISASTERS.  55 

acquainted  with  so  charming  a  *  demoiselle,' 
whose  remembrance  he  would  coiiserver,  ^jusq'au 
son  dernier  soupir'' — that  my  'beaux  yeux' 
had  lighted  a  flame  in  his  heart,  which  would 
burn  there  so  long  as  he  lived — that  my  image 
should  form  the  sole  charm  of  his  existence — and 
that  he  would  live  only  to  think  of  me  f  &c.  &c. 
&c. — To  hear  this  old  creature — who  looked 
like  an  oyster — uttering  speeches  not  the  least  en 
badinage,  but  in  the  most  serious  tone  and 
manner — was  irresistibly  comic.  You  would  have 
thought  our  separation  must  have  been  a  most 
heart-breaking  scene;  instead  of  which  he 
took  leave  of  me  at  last  with  the  most  punctilious 
bows  and  formal  compHments,  but  without  a 
particle  of  emotion. 

"•  Then  there  was  a  young  Frenchman — an 
Avocat  de  Paris,  a  M.  Berger,  whom  we 
surnamed  the  Gentle  Shepherd — and  who  did 
his  best  to  look  interesting — and  sometimes 
heaved  a  sigh — and  before  we  had  been  an  hour 
on  board,  he  confided  to  Mrs.  Cleveland  and 
me  the  whole  story  of  his  hapless  love.  He 
had  fallen  '  in  love,  very  deep,'   with  a  young 


56 


DISASTERS. 


lady  (a  perfect  angel),  and  she  fell  in  love  very 
deep  with  him — ^but  his  friends  did  not  think  it 
a  bon  parti  for  him — and  though  he  had 
neither  father  nor  mother,  had  (he  said)  a  good 
fortune,  was  his  own  master,  and  was  -in  the 
twenty-sixth  year  of  his  age,  he  had  determined 
to  conquer  his  '  malheureuse'  passion,  and  reserve 
it  for  a  '  bon  parW — and  in  order  to  accom- 
plish this  end,  he  had  resolved  to  '  faire  une 
voyage,' — which  he  was  now  doing  expressly 
for  the  purpose  of  curing  his  love,  and  he 
calculated  that  it  would  cost  him  six  weeks  at 
least — ^before  he  was  perfectly  gueri — ^but  in 
that  time  he  so  confidently  expected  the  wounds 
of  his  heart  to  be  closed — and  that  he  had  fixed 
to  be  again  in  Paris  I  All  this  he  related  to  us 
spontaneously — expecting  our  highest  sympathy 
and  admiration.  There  was  nothing  against  the 
character  of  the  young  lady — no — she  was 
faultless,  spotless,  angelic  ! — neither  did  it 
appear  that  she  was  in  a  rank  of  life  inferior  to 
his— few^  his  friends  thought  he  might  do  better ! 
Marriages  in  France  really  seem  to  be  purely 
affairs    of    convenience    and    interest — perfect- 


DISASTERS.  57 

bargains  !  A  married  couple  are  matched  just 
like  a  pair  of  coach  horses,  and  their  inclinations 
as  little  consulted. 

"  The  most  amusing  person  on  board  was  a 
young,  gay,  gallant,  handsome  Frenchman — 
with  a  flow,  of  spirits  and  of  thoughtless  vivacity 
quite  French — and  who  had  been  married  seven 
years,  though  he  scarcely  looked  five  and  twenty, 
and  was  quite  as  great  an  admirer  and  follower 
of  the  fair  sex — and  quite  as  full  of  flattery, 
folly,  and  gallantry,  as  if  he  had  never  been 
married  at  all.  There  were  two  or  three  French 
ladies — ^but  they  seemed  so  indignant  at  our 
engrossing  the  whole  conversation  and  attention 
of  the  gentlemen,  that  they  kept  aloof,  and  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  us. 

"Our  amusement  was  entirely  derived  from 
our  companions,  for  the  navigation  of  the  Soane 
to  Macon  is  extremely  dull. — Its  green  heavy 
waters  flow  in  a  strait  line  through  low,  bare, 
shingly  banks — devoid  of  wood,  and  wholly 
destitute  of  beauty.  But  we  beheld,  for  the 
first  time,  to  our  unspeakable  delight  the  Alps  ! 
Their  long,  lofty,  purple  ridge,  rising  far  above 


58  DISASTERS. 

the  nearer  hills,  bounded  the  distant  horizon  ! 
— Certainly  they  formed  the  only  interesting 
sight  we  beheld,  until  Macon,  with  its  quai,  its 
bridge,  its  churches,  and  houses,  with  lower, 
flatter,  and  more  Italian  roofs  than  any  we  had 
yet  seen  greeted  our  eyes.  We  dined  at  the 
Souper  of  the  Table  d'Hote,  and  were  much 
amused  with  the  lively  rattle  of  our  married 
French  friend — and  the  sighing  sentimentality 
of  the  unmarried  '  Berger.' 

"  Our  voyage  down  the  Saone  next  morning 
to  Lyons  was,  however,  most  beautiful.  The 
broad  waters  of  the  Saone  here  flow  majestically 
through  a  valley,  the  richness  and  beauty  of 
which  make  it  a  second  paradise.  Its  steep  and 
picturesque  banks,  covered  with  the  richest 
produce  of  nature — with  vineyards  and  orchards, 
and  all  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  South — 
white  houses  starting  from  its  wooded  sides — 
rural  villages  reposing  on  its  banks — grotesque 
rocks,  romantic  towers,  and  old  chateaux  crown- 
ing the  lofty  heights  above  the  river — the  varying 
summits  of  the  romantic  mountains  of  Dauphin^ 
rising  near  to  us— and  the  sublime  ridge  of  the 


DISASTERS.  59 

Alps  in  distance,  altogether  formed  a  scene  of 
which  description  can  convey  no  idea, — therefore 
I  will  not  attempt  it.  The  day  was  glorious. 
To  look  around — to  see  the  beauty  and  harmony 
of  nature — the  aerial  tints  that  hung  upon  the 
mountains — the  purple  light  that  tinged  the 
rocks — the  brilHant  sun  that  shone  on  the  glit- 
tering waters — to  live  beneath  that  enchanting 
sky,  and  to  breathe  that  balmy  and  invigorating 
breeze  was  in  itself  happiness. 

"  The  approach  to  Lyons  is  beautiful,  but 
the  town  is  detestable."" 

Probably  the  reader  is  of  opinion  he  has 
got  enough  of  this  epistle. 


CHAPTER  V 


LYONS. 


O  Sacro,  aventuroso,  e  dolce  loco 

Fresco,  ombroso,  fiorito  e  verde  colle 
Ou'  or  pensando  ed  or  cantando  siede 
E  fa  qui,  de  celesti  spirt!  fede 
Quello  ch'a  tutto  '1  mondo  fama  tolle. 

Di  pensier  in  pensier— di  monte  in  monte 
Mi  guida. 

Petrarch. 


Probably  the  reader,  particularly  if  of  the 
male  kind,  and  consequently  averse  to  long 
letters — ^may  be  of  opinion  that  we  have  already 
given  him  a  sufficiently  unconscionable  dose  of 
the  last  epistle  of  our  fair  heroine,  but  as  we 
think  she  can  give  full  as  good  an  account  of 
her  own  travels  as  we  can  do  for  her,  we  shall 


LYONS.  61 

proceed  with  our  extracts  from  her  letters — and 
the  following,  like  all  the  rest,  we  give  without 
either  beginning  or  end. 

"  Without     end  !" exclaims     the    scared 

reader — the  volume  ready  to  drop  from  his 
trembling  hand. 

Fear  not — ^gentle  youth  ! — to  you  the  letter 
shall  have  an  end — although  it  be  not  the  end 
of  the  letter. — And  here  follows  our 

EXTRACT 


LETTER  IV. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO  GEORGIANA  BALCARRIS. 

"Nothing  can  exceed  the  filth  and  wretched- 
ness of  Lyons — the  second  city  of  France,  the 
vaunted  capital  of  her  rich  southern  provinces. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  poorest  English  village 
or  market  town,  would  disdain  to  inhabit  a 
dwelling  in  its  best  houses  and  streets.  The 
beauty  and  advantages  of  its  situation,  inter- 


62  LYONS. 

sected  by  two  noble  rivers — the  romantic  heights 
of  Fourvieres  rising  from  the  Soane,  amidst  its 
vine  shaded  cliffs,  embosoming  the  magnificent 
remains  of  mighty  Roman  aqueducts,  sepulchres, 
baths  and  palaces — the  rich  vales  and  plains 
extending  around  it,  bounded  by  the  majestic 
line  of  the  blue  Alps,  terminated  by  the 
glittering  summit  of  Mont  Blanc — all  com- 
bine to  render  its  squalid  filth  and  dilapidated 
wretchedness  more  striking,  disgusting  and 
unpardonable. 

Amongst  all  the  sights  we  saw  in  this 
abominable  city,  none  gratified  us  half  so  much 
as  the  interior  of  the  noble  Hospital,  which 
annually  receives  upwards  of  16,000  patients, 
and  is  conducted  with  the  strictest  attention  to 
the  cleanliness,  recovery,  and  comfort  of  the 
poor  sufferers. — Certainly,  the  first  sight  of  a 
nun  presented  itself  to  my  eyes  under  a  very 
favourable — ^if  not  a  very  fair  form,  in  the  person 
of  one  of  Les  Soeurs  de  la  Charite,  who  here 
attend  the  beds  of  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the 
dying  night  and  day  ; — dedicating  their  lives  on 
earth  truly  to  God.     They  are  bound  by  no 


LYONS.  63 

vows,  which  makes  the  constancy  of  their  self- 
devotion  more  pure  and  praise  worthy.  Many 
of  these  sisters,  now  advanced  in  years,  had 
passed  their  lives  in  this  holy  occupation.  Some 
of  them  are  very  young,  and  a  few  very  pretty. 
During  the  siege  of  Lyons  by  the  Revolutionist 
Demons,  while  the  cannon  balls  were  actually 
shattering  the  windows  and  rebounding  through 
the  walls,  these  heroic  women  never  left  their 
post  for  a  moment ;  and  affecting  to  relate  !  not 
one  of  them  was  injured.  Previous  to  the 
Revolution,  this  was  the  only  hospital  in  France 
not  disgraced  by  the  most  gross  and  inhuman 
neglect  and  mismanagement — but  that  is  a 
reproach  which  no  longer  exists.  Their  dress  is 
very  singular  and  very  clean,  and  I  did  not  think 
it  unbecoming — the  extreme  whiteness  of  their 
linen,  which  forms  a  great  part  of  it,  contrasted 
well  with  the  dark  cloth  of  their  plain  dresses. 
Excepting  sustenance  and  clothes,  these  admi- 
rable women  have  only  forty  francs  a  year.  I 
looked  at  them  with  veneration,  and  if  ever  I 
abjure  the  world,  it  shall  be  to  become  a  '  Soeur 
de  la  Charite. 


62  LYONS. 

sected  by  two  noble  rivers — the  romantic  heights 
of  Fourvieres  rising  from  the  Soane,  amidst  its 
vine  shaded  cliiFs,  embosoming  the  magnificent 
remains  of  mighty  Roman  aqueducts,  sepulchres, 
baths  and  palaces — the  rich  vales  and  plains 
extending  around  it,  bounded  by  the  majestic 
line  of  the  blue  Alps,  terminated  by  the 
glittering  summit  of  Mont  Blanc — all  com- 
bine to  render  its  squaKd  filth  and  dilapidated 
wretchedness  more  striking,  disgusting  and 
unpardonable. 

Amongst  all  the  sights  we  saw  in  this 
abominable  city,  none  gratified  us  half  so  much 
as  the  interior  of  the  noble  Hospital,  which 
annually  receives  upwards  of  16,000  patients, 
and  is  conducted  with  the  strictest  attention  to 
the  cleanliness,  recovery,  and  comfort  of  the 
poor  sufferers. — Certainly,  the  first  sight  of  a 
nun  presented  itself  to  my  eyes  under  a  very 
favourable — ^if  not  a  very  fair  form,  in  the  person 
of  one  of  Les  Soeurs  de  la  Charite,  who  here 
attend  the  beds  of  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the 
dying  night  and  day  ; — dedicating  their  lives  on 
earth  truly  to  God.     They  are  bound  by  no 


LYONS.  63 

vows,  which  makes  the  constancy  of  their  self- 
devotion  more  pure  and  praise  worthy.  Many 
of  these  sisters,  now  advanced  in  years,  had' 
passed  their  lives  in  this  holy  occupation.  Some 
of  them  are  very  young,  and  a  few  very  pretty. 
During  the  siege  of  Lyons  by  the  Revolutionist 
Demons,  while  the  cannon  balls  were  actually 
shattering  the  windows  and  rebounding  through 
the  walls,  these  heroic  women  never  left  their 
post  for  a  moment ;  and  affecting  to  relate  !  not 
one  of  them  was  injured.  Previous  to  the 
Revolution,  this  was  the  only  hospital  in  France 
not  disgraced  by  the  most  gross  and  inhuman 
neglect  and  mismanagement — but  that  is  a 
reproach  which  no  longer  exists.  Their  dress  is 
very  singular  and  very  clean,  and  I  did  not  think 
it  unbecoming — the  extreme  whiteness  of  their 
linen,  which  forms  a  great  part  of  it,  contrasted 
well  with  the  dark  cloth  of  their  plain  dresses. 
Excepting  sustenance  and  clothes,  these  admi- 
rable women  have  only  forty  francs  a  year.  I 
looked  at  them  with  veneration,  and  if  ever  I 
abjure  the  world,  it  shall  be  to  become  a  «  Sceur 
de  la  Charite. 


66  LYONS. 

when  he  b.ecame  the  favourite  of  the  reigning 
prince,  and  first  in  favour  and  place ;  but  he 
fell  in  love  with  '  La  belle  Alleraande,' — a 
woman  without  rank  or  distinction.  Her  virtue 
was  proof  against  his  attempts  to  seduce  her — 
her  heart  was  another''s ; — yet  her  parents  gave 
her  to  the  Count  in  marriage,  and  losing  all 
credit  at  Court,  in  consequence  of  this  degrading 
alliance,  he  returned  with  his  beautiful  bride  to 
this  lovely  valley. — She  loved  not  its  solitude  and 
seclusion — she  loved  not  her  Lord — and  he,  dis- 
covering her  secret  intercourse  with  a  young 
man — according  to  some  accounts,  her  first  lover, 
who  had  followed  her  from  Germany ;  according 
to  others,  one  of  his  own  train, — immured  her 
in  this  tower,  and  shut  up  her  lover  in  the 
Chateau  de  Pierre  Seise  opposite. — The  youth 
escaped  from  his  prison,  threw  himself  into  the 
river — with  the  desperate  resolution  of  swimming 
across  and  scaling  the  tower  of  his  imprisoned 
mistress,  who  waved  a  white  scarf  to  him  from 
her  grated  window — ^but  he  was  seen  by  the 
guards  of  the  castle,  and  shot  in  the  water  be- 
fore her  eyes. 


LYONS.  67 

"  Having  been  nearly  torn  to  pieces  by  some 
ill-mannered  curs,  I  was  compelled  to  take  refuge 
in  a  farm-house  in  this  valley.  Never  did  I 
see  so  dirty  and  slovenly  a  place — and  its 
inhabitants  were  well  suited  to  it. 

"  If  the  French  people  of  all  ranks  were  not  as 
dirty  as  their  houses  and  streets,  one  might  have 
some  patience  with  them.  But  so  disgusting 
and  unclean  are  their  habits,  so  unpleasant  their 
neglect  of  personal  neatness,  so  offensive  their 
continual  outrage  of  all  delicacy  in  their  topics 
of  discourse,  that  I  marvel  how  they  can  have 
the  effrontery  to  make  any  pretensions  to  refine- 
ment. And  as  to  theb*  ease  and  want  of  form, 
compared  to  our  alleged  stiffness  and  ceremony — 
to  give  you  an  instance  of  it — we  were  present 
at  an  introduction  between  two  Frenchmen  this 
morning,  in  which  there  passed  more  formal 
bows  and  scrapes,  more  set  speeches  and  unmean- 
ing compliments  than  could  ever  have  occurred 
in  England  since  the  days  of  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison.  Soon  after — while  we  were  eating  ice  in 
a  Caffe,  we  were  still  more  amused  with  an  unex- 
pected meeting  between  two  fat  old  Frenchmen 
r2 


68 


LYONS. 


from  the  provinces.  They  first  stood  still,  uttering 
an  exclamation — then  advanced — then  retreated 
a  step  or  two — then  took  off  their  hats,  and  very 
deliberately  embraced  each  other  three  several 
measured  times — always  receding  a  step  between 
each  embrace  ;  then  they  saluted  each  other  with 
the  same  deliberation,  on  each  cheek — and  finally 
they  sat  down. — The  Caffe  was  full  of  people, 
sitting  looking  on — and  these  two  good  old  souls 
were  going  through  this  scene  standing  alone  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  their  fat  figures  reflected 
from  innumerable  pier  glasses. 

"  As  to  the  vaunted  bienseance  and  attention 
of  the  French  to  the  feelings  of  others  in  trifles 
— (not  to  mention  that  they  follow  us  about 
the  streets,  calling  out  '  Les  Anglaises !  les 
Anglaises  !**' — as  if  we  were  wild  beasts) — I  was 
astonished,  last  night,  in  the  public  promenade 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone,  to  see  the  whole 
well-dressed  crowd,  male  and  female,  suddenly 
take  to  their  heels  in  one  direction,  and  the 
cause  of  this  universal  rush  was  to  stare  at  a 
woman  walking,  dressed  in  a  Turkish  turban  ! 
This  promenade,  by  the  way,  was  the  scene  of 


LYONS. 


69 


the  horrible  fusillades  at  the  French  Revolution, 
where  successive  thousands  were  massacred  at 
once,  by  volleys  of  shot  from  their  own  country- 
men. It  is  related  of  that  monster,  Collet 
d'Herbois,  that  he  was  once  informed  that 
two  unaccused  persons  had  been,  by  accident, 
confounded  in  the  crowd  of  victims,  and  dragged 
to  the  place  of  slaughter,  and  was  asked  if  the 
execution  should  not  be  stopped  till  they  were 
rescued — ^he  replied,  '  II  ne  vaut  pas  la  peine. — 
Qu  'importe — qu  'il  y  en  ait  deux  de  plus .?' 

"As  Lyons  had  no  charms — and  the  carriage, 
as  yet,  no  wheels — Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland 
were  easily  persuaded  to  go  down  the  Rhone  to 
Avignon,  in  order  to  visit  Vaucluse — and  agreed 
to  go  in  the  Coche  d'Eau — (our  passage  in  the 
last  having  proved  so  pleasant) — ^but  sorely  did 
we  repent  ourselves  of  this  undertaking.  Multi- 
farious were  our  disasters  by  the  way; — for 
we  were  stuck  fast  in  the  rapid  and  shallow 
waters  of  the  Rhone  times  innumerable — 
stopped  by  adverse  blasts — stayed  by  perverse 
pilots — ^bewildered  in  thick  fogs — starved  with 
hunger — benumbed  with  cold — broiled  with  heat 


70  THE    RHONE. 

— drenched  with  rain — and  debarked  and  re- 
embarked  so  often,  that  we  finally  lost  our  food, 
sleep,  time,  and  patience — and  still  we  seemed 
to  advance  no  further  upon  this  intolerable  river. 
Every  thing  proved  a  bar  to  the  progress  of  the 
unwieldy  machine  in  which,  in  an  evil  hour,  we 
had  embarked.  It  had  to  be  anchored  till  a 
gust  of  wind  abated — it  could  not  move  an  inch 
when  a  partial  river  fog  encompassed  it — ^it  had 
to  be  run  aground  to  avoid  the  rapids — it  had 
to  be  dragged,  by  main  force,  through  the 
shoals — it  had  always  either  too  little  or  too 
much  wind  or  water  to  get  forward — it  had  to 
wait  for  stray  passengers — it  had  to  send  for 
fresh  pilots — it  had  to  take  in  or  give  out  pack- 
ages— it  had  always  some  new  cause  for  delay — 
and,  after  an  endurance  of  fifteen  hours  of  this 
tedious  operation — still  we  were  stuck  fast,  help- 
lessly, in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  without 
any  prospect  of  advancing  upon  our  voyage. 
Added  to  this,  though  the  sun  in  the  middle  of 
the  day  had  been  intensely  hot — the  evening, 
like  the  morning,  was  piercingly  cold  and  damp. 
A  storm  of  rain  came  on,  which  drove  us  to  the 


THE    RHONE.  71 

crowded  cabin,  and  its  intolerable  smells  drove 
us  back  from  its  shelter,  to  be  drenched  on  the 
deck.  Finally,  night  was  closing  around  us — 
we  had  got  no  dinner  and  had  breakfasted  at 
five  o*'clock — when  we  struck  fast  irrecoverably  in 
a  deep  soft  channel,  out  of  sight  of  any  human 
habitation, — and  there  the  padron,  or  master  of 
the  boat,  declared  we  must  stick  till  morning. 
The  scene  of  confusion  and  dismay  which  now 
ensued,  could  only  have  been  equalled  in  a  ship 
foundering  at  sea.  The  cries  and  lamentations 
of  the  women,  the  oaths  and  execrations  of  the 
men,  "the  wailings  of  the  children,  the  volley  of 
abuse  from  the  padron  to  the  pilot,  and  the 
pilot  to  the  padron — the  loud  rushing  of  the 
water  past  the  sides  of  the  vessel — the  shouts  of 
the  boatmen — -joined  to  the  clamours  of  the 
people  on  shore — formed  a  combination  of  sounds 
of  such  dire  distress — that  one  would  really 
have  supposed  we  were  in  the  last  extremity — 
instead  of  merely  being  stuck  in  the  mud  of  a 
shallow  river,  where  there  was  scarcely  water 
enough  to  drown  a  cat.  At  last,  like  ship- 
wrecked mariners,  a  boat  was  procured  for  our 


72  THE    RHONE. 

rescue — and  to  see  the  struggle  and  agitation 
with  which  the  terrified  passengers  tumbled  into 
it,  was  truly  ludicrous.  One  great  stout  man, 
six  feet  high,  who  had  stood  by  me  quaking 
with  fear,  and  uttering  unconscious  ejaculations, 
in  his  hurry  to  get  in,  nearly  knocked  me  down, 
and  completely  maimed  my  foot  with  setting  his 
whole  weight  upon  it,  without  stopping  to  heed 
my  complaints.  A  woman  left  her  child  asleep 
behind  her — and  when  we  had  nearly  gained  the 
shore,  she  suddenly  started  up,  and  seizing  poor 
Lord  Lumbercourt,  who  was  next  her,  in  a 
strict  embrace,  to  his  utter  consternation,— 
exclaimed,  '  O  mon  enfant !  mon  enfant !'  The 
boat  was  afterwards  sent  back  for  her  'enfant' — 
and  a  walk  of  nearly  a  mile  in  the  dark  brought 
us  to  a  miserable  little  village  in  the  only  Cabaret 
of  which  we  all  took  refuge  for  the  night.  The 
kitchen  was  the  only  place  it  afforded  to  sit 
down  in,  and  a  sort  of  large  cock-loft  the  only 
place  to  sleep  in— the  said  cock-loft  being 
furnished  with  divers  most  uninviting  looking 
beds— usually  tenanted  by  Roulieres.  The  bed 
of  the  old  Aubergistes,  which  stood  in  a  closet, 


THE    RHONE.  73 

they  resigned  in  favour  of  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland.  I  refused  to  accept  the  offered  half 
of  it  with  her,  declaring,  with  truth,  that  I 
much  preferred  a  little  clean  straw,  which  was 
spread  for  me  in  a  place  with  a  brick  floor, 
on  which  I  enjoyed  a  very  comfortable  repose. — 
As  for  poor  Lord  Lumbercourt,  he  slept  on  one 
of  the  uncurtained  beds  in  the  cock-loft; — on 
another  reposed  a  young  French  lady  close  to 
him — so  close  that  he  declared  he  could  have 
shaken  hands  with  her,  and  the  gentleman's 
discomposure  at  this  enviable  proximity  was  not 
more  amusing  than  the  lady's  indifference  to  it. 
A  promiscuous  assemblage  of  Frenchmen  and 
French  women  occupied  the  other  beds.  These 
French  women  were  not  in  the  least  discomposed 
by  sleeping  in  the  same  room  with  so  many  men — 
nor  thought  it  at  all  disagreeable  nor  indecorous. 
— The  old  Aubergiste  dressed  us  an  excellent 
supper,  the  Avhole  process  of  which  we  witnessed. 
Des  cotellettes — Bouilli — ^pommes  de  terre  frites 
— a  poulet,  a  gigot  of  mutton,  roasted — and 
some  boiled  fish — formed  our  repast — followed 
by  a  desert  of  cheese,  pears,  grapes  and  nuts. 


74  THE    RHONE. 

'*  So  ended  the  first  day  of  our  voyage — and 
fearful  was  the  account  of  the  '  Naufrage'  which 
some  of  our  companions  related.  On  re-embarking 
next  morning — we  found,  to  our  great  amaze- 
ment, an  old  French  gentleman,  whose  unwashed 
face  and  black  unshaven  beard  were  of  many 
days  growth,  and  his  long  queue,  once  powdered, 
surmounted  by  a  little  old  fur  cap,  added  to  the 
effect  of  his  lean  rueful  physiognomy,  and  to  his 
complaints,  which  he  poured  forth  in  the  most 
comic  manner — of  his  hard  fate  in  having  been 
thus  abandoned  the  live-long  night,  in  the  midst 
of  the  waters.  This  unlucky  old  creature,  in 
the  confusion  of  the  preceding  evening,  had  been 
forgotten  and  left  on  board  fast  asleep,  in  the 
corner  of  his  cabriolet.  He  said  he  never  awoke 
till  it  was  pitch  dark,  and  then  the  stillness  and 
darkness  which  surrounded  him,  the  loud  rushing 
of  the  waters,  and  the  confusion  of  his  intellects, 
gave  him  the  impression  that  he  was  drowned, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  Rhone — and  when  he 
came  perfectly  to  his  senses,  he  found  himself 
uttering  lamentable  cries  of  '  Je  suis  noye — moi 
Je  suis  noye  !'     But  no  one   answered  to   his 


THE     RHONE.  75 

calls — and  after  roaring  in  vain  for  help  till  he 
was  tired — ^he  was  compelled  to  pass  the  night 
alone,  and  hungry  and  supperless,  on  board  the 
Coche  d'  Eau. 

"  The  inhabitants  of  the  South  of  France 
seem  to  be  a  much  graver  and  less  mercurial 
race  than  in  the  north.  Although  there  were 
not  less  than  two  hundred  people  on  board  this 
unwieldy  machine,  there  was  no  sound  of  laughter 
or  merriment — no  noisy  chattering,  such  as  you 
would  expect  among  such  a  multitude  of  idle 
Frenchmen.  Nine-tenths  of  the  men  were 
smoking — all  looked  dull — and  the  whole  party 
seemed  more  like  a  set  of  phlegmatic  Flemings 
than  volatile  Frenchmen.  With  such  compa- 
nions, you  may  suppose  our  voyage  was  not 
peculiarly  amusing ;  however,  in  the  curious 
medley  on  board  this  Coche  d'  Eau,  there  were  a 
few  with  whom  we  could  hold  conversation — 
amongst  the  rest  a  young  Frenchman  of  most 
sentimental  temperament,  who  professed  himself 
an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  beauties  of  nature, 
and  while  we  were  admiring  the  bold  outline  of 
the  towering  Alps — after  evidently  creusant  la 


76  THE    RHONE. 

tete^  for  the  highest  compliment  he  could  pay 
them,  he  declared,  with  great  energy,  they  were 
'  bien  gentil !'  an  epithet  which  he  had  just 
before  applied,  with  somewhat  more  propriety, 
to  my  bonnet.  Another,  on  hearing  we  were 
going  to  Vaucluse,  emphatically  assured  us  that 
it  was  indeed  well  worth  while.  'Je  vous 
conseille,"*  he  said,  '  d  'y  aller — ^il  vaut  bien  la 
peine — pour  manger  les  Ecrivisses  et  les  Truites 
de  la  Sorgue  !' — assuredly  we  should  never  have 
thought  of  this  all-sufficient  recompence. — At 
the  same  time  I  suspect  there  are  some  among 
our  own  countrymen — as  well  as  this  French 
acquaintance  of  ours — who  would  feel  more 
attraction  in  '  les  Ecrivisses  et  les  Truites,' 
than  in  poetry  and  Petrarch. — A  smart  little 
French  girl  of  sixteen,  returning  with  her 
father  and  mother,  after  finishing  her  education 
at  a  Paris  Pension,  to  her  home  in  Provence, 
chattered  away  to  me.  I  made  many  enquiries 
into  the  nature  and  extent  of  her  studies,  and 
found  she  had  studied — orthography,  (upon 
this  she  laid  great  stress), — and  geography,  (of 
which  she  had  certainly  a  most  original,    but 


THE    RHONE.  77 

somewhat  confused  notion.) — That  she  had, 
moreover,  acquired  a  smattering  of  grammar — 
a  considerable  experience  of  dancing — a  very 
Httle  music — a  good  deal  of  embroidery — and  a 
most  complete  critical  and  ardent  taste  for  dress 
— ^and  in  this  last  accomplishment  her  whole 
soul  and  mind,  thoughts  and  observation,  seemed 
absorbed. — '  But  what  did  you  read  at  school — 
what  books  ?' — '  Oh  pour  les  livres !' — she  read  her 
lessons  and  school-books  ? — '  Mais  par  exemple — 
— 1  inquired  what  were  they  about  ? — were  they 
history  ?'' — '  Ah  Fhistoire !  mon  Dieu — oui."* — She 
declared  she  had  read  three  gros  volumes  of 
history  nearly  all  through ! — 'And  what  history  ?"* 
— 'What  history?  she  did  not  exactly  know  I' 
'  But  what  was  it  about  ?'  It  was  about  some 
kings  afid  battles — but  what  kings  and  what 
battles  she  really  could  not  say.  '  Did  she 
happen  to  remember  the  author  ?''  '  No — she  was 
not  sure  that  it  had  any  author — Did  not  think 
it  had.**  But  she  said,  with  great  simplicity, 
that  she  had  all  the  books  that  she  had  learnt 
locked  up  in  her  trunk,  and  she  would  go  and 
fetch  them  for  me  to  look  at. — Not  wishing  to 


78  THE    RHONE. 

penetrate  further  into  the  learned  stores  of  a 
young  lady  who  carried  all  her  knowledge  about 
with  her  in  her  trunk,  we  abandoned  our  learned 
discussion,  and  talked  of  caps  and  quadrilles — 
but  our  learned  discussion  on  these  subjects  was 
speedily  interrupted  by  being  again  stranded — 
and  all  patience  abandoning  us,  we  abandoned 
the  Coche  d'  Eau,  which  nothing  but  the  impos- 
sibility of  getting  Lord  Lumbercourt's  carriage 
out  of  it  could  ever  have  induced  us  to  set  foot 
in,  this  morning.  We  now  were  fain  to  betake 
ourselves  to  a  small  boat,  less  liable  to  such 
accidents,  in  which  our  party  set  off  down  the 
Rhone.  Our  progress  was  now  more  prosperous, 
yet  Fate  again  conducted  us  for  the  night  to  an 
Auberge,  already  filled  with  travellers.  But 
they  were  all  men,  and  all  Frenchmen,  and 
nothing  really  could  exceed  their  obliging 
politeness.  They  shifted  their  rooms,  and 
packed,  and  arranged  themselves  so  as  to  accom- 
modate us  ;  and  three  of  those  gentlemen,  who 
had  got  possession  of  a  tolerable  room  with 
three  beds  in  it,  finding  that  I  had  got  a  little 
wretched  hole  to  sleep  in,  intreated  me  to  take 


THE    RHONE.  79 

their  room — which  they  would  resign  entirely  to 
me — (I  marvel  they  did  not  offer  me  one  of  the 
beds.)  Each  of  them  reiterating,  '  Je  me 
coucherai  sur  le  plancher,  moi — Mademoiselle  !"* 
'Je  me  sacrifierai  pour  vous^ — and  most  soli- 
citous and  urgent  were  they  that  I  should  accept 
their  proffered  offer.  They  were  really  a  lesson 
to  the  selfish  unaccommodating  behaviour  too 
often  shewn  by  Englishmen,  and  particularly 
English  travellers,  towards  ladies — they  made 
me  blush  for  my  countrymen. 

"  Next  morning,  Lord  Lumbercourt's  servant 
having  brought  up  his  carriage,  we  bade  adieu 
to  the  Rhone  without  regret.  We  were  much 
disappointed  in  its  beauty.  Its  bare  banks  of 
naked  rocks,  interspersed  with  patches  of  vine- 
yards, wholly  unshaded  by  wood  and  unclothed 
by  vegetation — its  wide  stony  channel,  through 
which  its  slimy  waters  flow  in  broken  streams — 
its  whitened  shingly  bed — and  its  total  want  of 
shade,  of  population,  and  even  of  animal  life — 
give  such  an  arid  and  sterile  effect  to  the  scene, 
that  I  should  often  have  fancied  myself  in  the 
deserted  wilds  of  America,  rather  than  the  rich 


80  THE    RHONE. 

valleys  of  the  South  of  France.  Sometimes  an 
old  chateau,  or  ruined  fortress  on  the  rock — 
with  the  abrupt  picturesque  forms  of  the  cliffs, 
and  the  lofty  grandeur  of  the  distant  mountains, 
presented  a  striking  combination  of  scenery — 
but  in  general  it  was  dreary  beyond  description. 
Mount  Ventoux,  the  insulated  and  towering 
height  which  Petrarch  once  ascended,  formed 
one  of  the  most  grand  and  striking  objects 
of  every  view. 

We  passed  close  to  the  celebrated  vineyards 
of  the  Cote  Rotie,  the  Hermitage,  &c.  but  they 
are  rich  in  production  only,  not  in  appearance  ; 
nor  are  these  fine  wines  of  the  Rhone  to  be  had 
upon  its  banks.  Wretched  was  the  stuff  which 
was  brought  to  us  as  Hermitage  of  '  La  premiere 
qualite,"  much  to  Lord  Lumbercourt's  disap- 
pointment and  dismay. 

The  Roman  bridges  of  the  Pont  d'  Esprit 
and  the  Pont  du  Garde,  which  we  afterwards 
visited  near  Nismes,  amply  repaid  us  for  all  our 
troubles. 

At  Orange  we  saw  the  noble  marble  trium- 
phal arch — the  first  monument  I  ever  beheld  of 


ORANGE.  81 

the  power  and  the  magnificence  of  the  ancient 
Romans.  Its  date  is  unknown — the  triumphs  it 
was  destined  to  commemorate  forgotten.  Tradi> 
tion  assigns  it  to  the  victories  of  Marius  over  the 
Cimbri. — But  neither  of  the  great  battles  with 
those  barbarians  took  place  at  or  even  near  this 
spot — ^nor  does  the  sculpture  seem  to  be  of  the 
Republican  age.  On  two  of  the  sides,  the 
beautiful  bas  reliefs  which  adorn  it  are  in 
excellent  preservation. — The  fine  remains  of  a 
Roman  Theatre  here,  are  so  choaked  up  with 
prisons,  paltry  shops,  and  dwellings,  hovels,  out- 
houses, dunghills,  and  dirt  of  every  descl-iption, 
that  they  can  be  only  very  imperfectly  viewed. 
— O!  this  nation  of  vain  and  arrogant  pretensions 
to  taste — with  how  many  offences  against  it  may 
it  not  be  charged  ! 

"  Night  brought  us,  through  intolerable  roads, 
to  the  '  Hotel  de  Petrarque  et  de  Laure,'  at  the 
little  town  of  LTsle,  near  Vaucluse,  where  we 
were  regaled  with  quails,  and  with  the  '  Ecri- 
visses  de  la  Sorgue"* — made  into  a  sort  of  pasty 
or  dish,  for  which  this  place  is  famous — and 
moreover  we  had  the  greater  regale  of  good  beds. 

VOL.  I.  G 


82  VAUCLUSE. 

"A  'league  du  pays,"* above  four  miles  through 
a  wild,  bare,  dreary,  unpromising  waste,  led  us 
to  the  vale  of  Vaucluse,  for  ever  consecrated  by 
the  genius  of  Petrarch. — We  wound  down  a 
short  declivity,  and  beheld — 

Fra  *duo  poggi  siede  ombrosa  valle, 

Through  which  the  deep  crystalline  waters  of 
the  rushing  Sorgue ; — still  the  same 

Rapido  fiume  che  di  alpestre  vena,  &c.  &c. 

dashes  round  the  base  of  a  tremendous  preci- 
pice of  solid  rock,  crowned  by  the  ruins  of  a 
castle,  at  the  base  of  which,  and  encircled  by  the 
river,  stands  the  little  village  of  Vaucluse, 
with  its  rural  bridge,  its  olive  mill,  its  old  moss- 
covered  church,  and  its  humble  cottages — 
enlivened  by  a  meadow  of  the  brightest  verdure. 
The  broad  spreading  fig-trees,  with  their  ripened 
fruit,  the  vines  clinging  round  the  maple  and 
mulberry,  covering  their  foliage  from  top  to 
bottom  with  curling  tendrils,  and  rich  purple 
clusters  of  grapes — the  rapid  course  of  the 
Sorgue,  and  the  singular  forms  and  gigantic 
masses  of  the  steep  towering  precipices  of  rock — 


VAUCLUSE.  83 

formed  one  of  tlie  most  striking  scenes  imagina- 
tion can  picture.  It  was  impossible,  without 
some  emotions  of  enthusiasm,  to  behold  the 
scenes  immortalized  by  Petrarch,  in  the  most 
touching  strains  of  poetry — the 

Valle,  che  di  lament!  miei  se  plena, 
Fiume,  che  spesso  del  mio  pianger  cresci ; 
Fere  silvestre,  vaghi  augelli  e  pesci 
Che  r  una  e  1'  altra  verde  riva  affrena  ; 
Aria  de'  miei  sospir  calda  e  serena ; 
Dolce  sentier,  che  si  amaro  riesci ! 
Colle,  che  mi  piacesti,  or  mi  rincresci 
Ov'  ancor  per  usanzii  amor  mi  mena. 

"  But  the  '  dolce  sentier** — like  all  other  paths 
of  pleasure,  terminated  too  soon.  The  vale  of 
Vaucluse  is  short  and  winding,  and  our  steps 
were  speedily  arrested  by  the  sight  of  that 
tremendous  perpendicular  barrier  of  rock  whicli 
closes  it,  and  from  which  rushes  the  foun- 
tain of  Vaucluse.  At  a  height  from  which 
the  lark,  as  she  soars,  is  scarcely  visible,  and 
to  which  the  eye,  immediately  below,  can  scarcely 
reach — towers  the  summit  of  this  adamantine 
precipice ;  and  from  the  depths  of  the  hidden 
cavern  at  its  base — said  to  be  unfathomable — 
g2 


84  VAUCLUSE. 

spring  up,  foaming  into  day,  the  waters  of  the 
pure  green  translucent  Sorgue,  and  dash  down 
the  vale  at  once  a  full-born  mighty  stream. — A 
wild  fig  tree,  springing  horizontally  from  the 
rock,  marks  the  highest  point,  to  which  the 
impetuous  waters  of  the  fountain  rise.  How 
often  had  Petrarch  gazed  upon  it  ! — How 
often  had  the  name  of  '  Laura,^  breathed  in  the 
new  born  accents  of  immortal  verse,  mingled 
with  the  rushing  of  those  enchanted  waters  ! — 
But  I  will  spare  you  all  sentiment — and  any  more 
description.  The  pure  bright  green  colour  of 
this  crystalline  river  is  very  singular,  at  least  I 
never  saw  any  at  all  resembling  it.  Need  I  say 
that  we  visited  the  humble  house  of  Petrarch, 
which  stands  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  at  the 
base  of  the  precipice  crowned  by  the  ruined 
castle — anciently  the  residence  of  the  proud 
Bishops  of  Cavaillon.  The  white- washed  walls 
of  his  chamber  are  ornamented  with  old  portraits 
of  Petrarch  and  Laura. — We  visited  the  laurel 
in  his  garden — said  to  have  sprung  from  one  of 
those  he  apostrophised  so  beautifully 

Cosi  creca  '1  bel  lauro  in  fresca  riva. 


VAUCLUSE.  85 

Seated  beside  it,  we  eat  the  ripe  grapes  from  his 
vines,  and  drank  to  his  memory  in  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  fountain. 
Having  wandered 

Per  alti  monti  e  per  salve  aspre  trovo 
Qualche  riposo. 

I  seated  myself  like  the  poet,  'sopra  Y  erba  verda," 
and  by  the  side  of  the  'acqua  chiara,'  beneath  the 
shade  of  an  aged  pine  tree,  which  I  pleased 
myself  with  fancying  might  be  the  very  spot  of 
the  valley  Petrarch  alludes  to 

Ove  porge  ombra  un  pino  alto  ad  im  coUe. 
Talor  m'  arresto ; 

while  enjoying  myself  here,  with  Petrarch  in 
my  hand,  many  were  the  serious  warnings  Lord 
Lumbercourt  gave  me,  of  the  danger  of  catching 
cold  by  sitting  on  the  damp  grass. — But  alas  ! — 
little  did  his  Lordship  know  how  much  more 
damp  was  the  fate  that  awaited  himself — for  in 
an  evil  hour,  in  attempting  to  follow  me  over  the 
river  upon  some  stepping  stones — ^his  foot  slipped, 
and  he  fairly  tumbled  into  the  water,  from  which 
he  was  extricated  by    '  Gregory'— on  whom  he 


86  VAUCJLUSE. 

loudly  called — and  other  assistants:  not  however 
without  being  completely  soused.  A  change  of 
dry  clothes  from  his  carriage,  and  a  blazing  wood 
fire  in  Petrarch's  kitchen,  were  immediately 
resorted  to — and  being  once  more  restored  to 
comfort,  I  sought  to  console  him  by  the  assurance 
that  having  been  immersed  in  the  waters  of  the 
Fountain  of  Vaucluse,-— these  '  chiara  fresche  e 
dolci  acque,' — he  must  be  henceforward  so  deeply 
imbued  with  the  genius  of  Petrarch — that  all  the 
springs  of  Helicon  would  fall  short  of  such 
inspiration.  But  in  vain  was  such  consolation ;-— - 
not  to  have  been  Petrarch  himself  would  he,  I 
am  sure,  have  been  reconciled  to  such  a  plunge. 
A  glass  of  Eau  de  vie  proved  a  much  more  effec- 
tual restorative.  Still  he  could  not  forget  his 
submersion,  and  during  the  whole  day,  and  for 
many  days  after,  did  it  form  a  principal  subject  of 
his  conversation.  Returning  from  Vaucluse  on 
the  direct  road  to  Avignon,  we  crossed  the  broad 
white  shingly  ugly  channel  of  the  Durance,  so 
famed  in  the  lays  of  the  Troubadours.  No  vestige 
of  Laura  remains  at  Avignon,  the  house  has  long 
since  been  destroyed,  and  her  tomb  was  washed 


AVIGNON.  87 

away  by  an  inundation.  Avignon  is  the  ghost, 
or  spectre  of  a  great  city — grass  growing  in 
every  street — no  human  being  to  be  seen — the 
pavement  echoing  to  our  own  hollow  tread — -.the 
once  splendid  palaces  deserted  and  tenantless. — 
Short  as  was  our  stay  in  it,  it  was  longer  than 
it  deserved,  and  we  returned  to  Lyons, — (you 
may  be  sure  by  land) — with  all  possible  speed 
— excepting  that  we  went  round  by  Nismes — 
where  the  beautiful  ruins  of  the  Roman  Temples 
far  surpassed  the  high  expectations  which  prints 
and  descriptions  had  raised  in  our  minds.  They 
are  wholly  unrivalled  by  any  remains  of  antiquity 
on  this  side  the  Alps."" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SEPARATION 
AND  SWITZERLAND. 


When  young  blue  eyes  so  softly  bright. 
Diffuse  benignly  liquid  light, 
Ev'n  age  can  see  the  smiling  loves 
And  roguish  Cupid's  melting  doves, 
And  raptur'd  shrines  in  such  a  case, 
Love's  mercy  seat  and  throne  of  grace. 

Shine  but  on  age, — you  melt  its  snow. 

Again  fires  long  extinguish'd  glow, 

And,  charm'd  by  witchery  of  eyes, 

Blood  long  congealed  liquifies.  Green. 

O  Switzerland  !  thou  lov*d  romantic  land ! 


EXTRACT 

FROM 

LETTER  V. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

"  Sans  Pareil,  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
near  Lausanne^  July  Wth^  1816. 

"  You  desire  to  know  what  I  seriously  think 
of  Lord  Lumber  court.      Seriously  !      Let  me 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  89 

consider  ! — Seriously  then,  I  think  him  a  very 
serious  man.  He  is  likewise  a  sensible  man,  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  him,  on  the  whole,  a  very 
good  sort  of  man — but  withal  he  is  somewhat 
dull.  He  is  as  heavy  as  lead. — He  has  a  great 
deal  of  slow  sense,  sober  judgment,  and  solid 
vmderstanding — but  not  one  spark  of  wit,  ima- 
gination, taste,  or  talent.  He  can  decide  most 
correctly  upon  any  tangible  subject,  or  any 
plain  absolute  matter  of  fact ;  but  he  will 
discern  nothing  that  requires  acuteness,  pene- 
tration, ingenuity,  or  tact.  After  all,  this  solid 
judgment,  that  people  extol  so  much,  is  certainly 
a  powerful  thing,  but  its  mighty  momentum, 
like  a  huge  roller,  wants  the  light  lever  of  a 
little  ready  wit,  to  set  it  into  action.  People 
of  strong  slow  judgment  and  capacity,  like  Lord 
Lumbercourt,  perceive  what  is  set  before  them, 
the  outward  face  of  the  matter — but  very  often 
no  more.  They  want  penetration  and  tact,  to 
discern,  what  the  instinctive  eye  of  talent  in- 
stantly discovers,  and  their  indolence  of  mind 
as  well  as  slowness,  prevents  their  exercising  that 
labour    of    investigation — which     alone    could 


90  SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND. 

supply  their  deficiency  in  acuteness  and  power 
of  discrimination.  But  Lord  Lumbercourt  is 
really  a  man  of  strong  understanding  and  high 
principle;  and  as  far  as  indolence  will  allow  him, 
kind-hearted  and  benevolent ;  though  every  thing 
that  affects  his  personal  ease  and  convenience, 
or  physical  enjoyment,  is  of  the  last  importance 
to  him — and  like  all  those  ponderous  sort  of 
persons  he  is  very  fond  of  good  eating  and 
drinking.  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  has  got  a  fit  of 
the  gout,  whether  in  consequence  of  the  cold 
air  of  the  Coche  d'  Eau,  or  the  cold  water  of  the 
Sorgue,  I  cannot  say — ^but  I  really  am  sorry  for 
it. — I  pity  a  poor  helpless  man,  laid  up  alone  in  a 
comfortless  hotel,  in  a  foreign  country,  without  a 
single  resource  in  himself,  without  a  friend  near 
him,  and  without  a  soul  to  look  after  him 
except  '  Gregory ,**  who  is,  upon  all  occasions, 
a  much  more  useful  and  important  appendage 
to  his  Lordship  than  his  own  right  hand.. — 
I  pity  him  much,  Georgiana, — and  'pity  you 
know  is  akin  to  love.' — Love !  that  word  excites  all 
your  curiosity.  I  see  your  eager  enquiring  look — 
you  know  not  how  to  frame  the  question  in  words 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  91 

— but  I  divine  it.  Already  have  you  settled  in 
your  own  mind,  that  he  is  in  love  with  me. 
You  know  indeed  that  I  am  not  in  love  with 
him — but  what  of  that  ? — You  want  to  know, 
since  I  pity  him,  whether  I  will  not  marry  him 
out  of  pure  compassion — make  myself  a  Peeress 
out  of  mere  tenderness  of  heart — and  jump  into 
possession  of  fifteen  thousand  a-year  out  of  the 
excess  of  my  generous  disinterestedness. 

"  If  I  do,  I  must  volunteer  this  heroic  act  of 
self-immolation — which  will,  I  suppose,  make 
it  more  heroical  still.  I  must  make  the  offer  to 
him — for  out  of  the  excess  of  his  modesty,  I 
presume,  he  has  made  no  such  offer  to  me — 
nor  indeed  any  offer  at  all — which  I  know  is 
what  you  want  to  be  at — and  instead  of  suffering 
under  the  pangs  of  love — he  is  suffering  under 
the  pangs  of  the  gout — which  I  take  it  are 
much  the  more  acute  of  the  two. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Georgy,  that  I  have 
told  you  what  you  said  you  wanted  to  know  so 
much — viz.  my  opinion  of  Lord  Lumbercourt — 
I  will  tell  you  what  you  want  to  know  still 
more — his    opinion   of  me.       Know  then,   that 


9^  SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND. 

he  thinks  me  a  very  strange — ^but  somewhat 
amusing  sort  of  creature.  I  serve  to  please  him, 
just  as  a  rattle  does  a  child.  It  makes  it  open 
its  eyes  and  prick  up  its  ears,  and  laugh — ^it 
scarcely  knows  why,  just  as  I  do  Lord  Lumber- 
court.  I  give  him  sensation — and  he  will 
therefore  miss  me  much  more  than  more  impor- 
tant things.  He  may  say  of  me,  as  Prince 
Henry  said  of  Falstaff — 

I  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 


We  must  here  beg  leave  to  interrupt  the  young 
lady. — Lord  Lumbercourt  certainly  could  better 
have  spared  any  body.  It  very  frequently 
happens  that  quiet  grave  persons  of  dull  spirits, 
are  the  most  pleased  with  the  society  of  those 
whose  gaiety  and  vivacity  would  seem  the  most 
at  variance  with  their  own  character. — But  it  by 
no  means  always  happens  that  the  prediliction  is 
mutual.  It  was  not  Caroline  St.  Clair's  grace 
or  beauty  that  attracted  Lord  Lumbercourt — 
for  he  had  seen  thousands  more  beautiful — and 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  9 


Q 


his  heart  was  case-proof  against  the  attractions 
of  pretty  girls ; — it  was  her  hvely  powers  of 
conversation,   her  unfailing  spirits,   her  uncon- 
querable good  humour,  her  indifference  about 
personal  convenience,  her  warmth  of  feeling,  her 
sweetness  of  disposition,  her  witty  remark,  her 
inexhaustible  resource,  and  the  perfect  ease  and 
simplicity  of  her  open  and  generous  character. 
He  saw  and  felt  that  she  was  conscious  of  having 
nothing  to  conceal — that  she  was  natural  because 
undesigning ; — and   that,    unlike    some   young 
ladies  of  the  present  day,  whose  sole  aim  in  all 
they  do,  and  say,  and  think,  is  to  get  married — 
she  was  not  thinking  of  the  matter.     The  sun- 
shine of  her  smile,  and  the  laughing  light  of  her 
dark  blue  eye,  had  a  charm  for  Lord  Lumber- 
court  beyond  the  most  splendid  array  of  dazzling 
beauty  and  displayed  accomplishments  he  had 
ever  beheld;    and  she  had  engrossed  his  whole 
thoughts — seized  his  whole  affections,  and  made 
him  as   much   in  love  as  a  man   of  fifty  can 
possibly  be — long  before  she  left  him  in  solitary 
dullness  at  Lyons,  to  groan  under  the  gout  and 
sigh  for  the  lost  charms  of  her  lively  society. 


94  SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND. 

Having  now  taken  upon  us  to  elucidate  certain 
particulars,  which  our  heroine  could  not  or  would 
not  so  well  explain  herself,  (not  that  we  would 
presume  to  hint  that  she  had  the  remotest 
suspicion  of  the  matter), — we  shall  now,  having 
thus  faithfully  fulfilled  our  duty  as  careful 
commentators,  allow  her  to  resume  the  thread 

of  her  own  story. 

******** 

"Our  affecting  parting  being  over,  we 
proceeded  on  our  journey. 

"  The  road  from  Lyons,  till  the  grand  defile 
of  the  Jura  admits  you  into  Switzerland,  is  as 
dull  and  monotonous  as  the  rest  of  France — not 
a  single  tree  to  be  seen.  But  the  sublime  pass 
of  Fort  V  Ecluse,  where  the  mighty  waters  of 
the  Rhone  are  condensed  into  a  channel  of 
scarcely  twenty  feet — the  celebrated  Perte  du 
Rhone,  where  it  is  wholly  lost  to  your  sight,  and 
the  whole  woocfy  and  highly  picturesque  scenery 
from  thence  to  Geneva  was  truly  delightful. — 
But  Geneva  is  a  vile  place — ^not  so  dirty  but 
nearly  as  ugly  as  any  of  the  French  towns.  It 
differs,  however,  from  every  town — it  is  to  be 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  95 

hoped, — in  having  huge  ungainly  projections 
from  the  roofs  of  its  houses,  five  stories  high, 
sticking  far  out  into  the  streets,  propped  up  by 
long  slim  poles,  presenting  an  indescribably 
mean  and  awkward  appearance.  Its  dull  disa- 
greeable streets  are  carefully  shut  out  from  all 
view  of  the  lake — or  of  any  thing  but  their  own 
intrinsic  dullness  and  deformity ;  and  as  to  the 
Rhone  issuing  from  the  lake  in  a  narrow  confined 
spot,  hemmed  up  by  dirty  mills,  nothing  can  be 
less  romantic  or  beautiful — whatever  extravagant 
ecstacies  certain  poets  and  tourists  may  chuse  to 
fall  into  at  the  sight  of  it ; — though  certainly 
'  the  water,'  as  Lord  Byron  says,  '  is  blue,"  as 
far  as  that  goes. 

"  But  if  the  town  is  hideous,  the  country  is 
enchanting,  Certainly  going  from  France  into 
Switzerland,  is  like  passing  through  purgatory  to 
get  to  paradise.  And  Switzerland  is  an  earthly 
paradise.  The  majestic  trees,  the  verdant  fields, 
the  blooming  enclosures,  the  deep  blue  waters  of 
the  wide  expanded  lake,  its  richly  cultivated 
shores,  with  picturesque  cottages,  cheerful  country 
houses,  sweet  villages  and  hamlets  reposing  on 


96  SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND. 

its  banks ; — the  woods,  the  rocks,  the  half-seen 
opening  vallies — the  lofty  mountains — the  Alps 
in  all  the  majesty  of  nature — the  hoary  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc,  crowned  with  its  eternal  snows. — 
No  !  vainly  should  I  seek  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
this  land  of  surpassing  beauty ! — All  that  is 
lovely,  romantic,  glorious,  and  sublime  in  the 
works  of  nature,  are  combined  in  these  scenes  of 
varied  enchantment ! 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  animated  than  the 
scenery  of  Switzerland.  The  whole  country  is 
overspread  with  rural  habitations.  Here  you 
see  the  wealthy  substantial  farm  house,  compactly 
built  of  wood,  with  its  steep  projecting  roof, 
covered  with  wooden  shingles,  secured  with 
poles  and  stones — unpainted,  but  well  varnished 
with  its  own  native  brown  coat  of  exuded  resin ; 
perchance  carved  over  with  quaint  texts  of 
scripture,  and  always  sheltered  under  venerable 
umbrageous  walnut  trees — ^from  the  fruit  of 
which  the  peasants  extract  their  oil. — Turn 
aside,  and  there,  in  a  deep  pastoral  valley^ 
at  the  base  of  some  beetling  mountain,  which 
seems    to    threaten    its   humble  roof   with   the 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  97 

terrific  avalanche — stands  a  sweet  lowly  cottage, 
filled  with  busy  inmates,  and  surrounded  with 
every  appearance  of  rural  labour  and  contentment. 
— High  above,  perched  on  some  aerial  summit, 
accessible  only  to  the  shepherd  and  the  chamois, 
you  behold  the  Alpine  Chalet,  or  mountain  dairy, 
tenanted  only  in  summer,  while  the  cows  are 
grazing  on  the  hills. 

All  the  Swiss  passionately  love  the  country. 
Every  gentleman  has  a  Cdmpagne,  or  country 
house,  in  which  he  spends  the  whole  summer 
and  generally  indeed  the  greatest  part  of  the 
year;  and  though  perhaps  not  always  in  the 
best  taste,  these  Swiss  Cdmpagnes  have  an  air 
of  habitation,  of  neatness,  cheerfulness,  and 
happiness  about  them,  which  forms  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  triste,  miserable,  dilapidated  and 
deserted  Chateaux  of  France. 

In  fact,  to  the  French,  Paris  alone  is  enjoy- 
ment— the  country  is  a  desert.  They  live  only 
in  a  crowd,  and  in  public — they  delight  in  show 
and  dissipation — their  great  study  is  effect — and 
their  superlative  felicity  consists  in  attracting 
admiration  and  making  a  sensation.    Now  this  can 

VOL.    I.  H 


9.8         sp:paiiatioN'   and  Switzerland. 

only  be  done  amongst  strangers — consequently 
the  French  labour  more  to  please  the  world — 
that  is  the  mass  of  their  acquaintance;  the  Swiss 
live  more  for  their  families  and  friends.  The 
Swiss  are  far  more  domestic  and  retired  in  their 
habits,  and  more  attached  to  all  the  pursuits 
and  pleasures  which  make  home  happy.  They 
are  far  more  like  the  EngHsh.  They  are  fond 
of  gardening,  and  walking,  and  riding; — of  read- 
ing, and  drawing,  and  music ; — of  study,  and 
science,  and  literature. 

"  The  Swiss  women  are  generally  well  educated 
and  well  informed — and  by  no  means  display 
that  excessive  personal  vanity  and  passionate 
love  of  dress  and  admiration — which  charac- 
terise the  French.  Need  I  say  that  they  are 
much  more  moral  in  their  conduct.* 


*  On  this  point,  which  has  been  warmly  disputed,  one 
very  conclusive  fact  may  be  cited.  The  proportion  of  ille- 
gitimate births  in  France  averages  "  one  in  eleven  or  even 
more;"  in  Switzerland  it  is  only  "one  in  fifty-seven  in  the 
towns  ;  and  in  the  country  one  in  ninety -four." 

Vide  Simond''s  Stvitzerland,  vol.  1,  p.  51. 


SEPARATION    AND    SWITZERLAND.  99 

"  Mrs.  Cleveland's  mother,  you  know,  was 
a  Swiss  lady,  and  we  have  been  staying  with 
two  Swiss  families,  relations  of  hers,  ever  since 
we  arrived  in  this  delightful  country,  so  that 
we  are  completely  domesticated  with  the  Swiss, 
and  have  had  full  opportunity  of  seeing  their 
domestic  characters  and  habits — au  fond. 

"  In  a  day  or  two  we  are  to  remove  to  a 
delightful  Campagne,  or  villa  near  Lausanne, 
which  Colonel  Cleveland  has  taken  for  the 
summer,  and  which  justly  merits  its  name  of 
*  Belle  Vue.' 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know  something 
of  the  minutiae  of  our  daily  life,  as  it  passes 
with  our  amiable  Swiss  friends  the  Delemonts. 
We  breakfast  alone,  for  the  family  hour  of 
breakfast  is  much  too  early  for  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland;  and  indeed  with  the  Swiss,  like  the 
French,  breakfast  is  a  very  slight  affair,  consist- 
ing of  little  more  than  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  is 
scarcely  considered  as  a  meal.  All  the  morning 
the  mistress  of  the  house  is  sedulously  employed 
in  attending  to  her  domestic  concerns,  and  in 
superintending  the  education  of  her  daughters. 
H  2 


100    SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

We  dine  at  three,  a  late  hour  for  this  country. 
Coffee  immediately  succeeds  ;  and  after  a  little 
lively  talk,  the  party  usually  disperse — some  to 
amusement — some  to  study  or  employment.  In 
the  evening  we  take  a  walk,  and  always  prolong 
it  till  the  last  golden  hues  of  sunset  have  faded 
behind  the  mountains.  At  night  we  all  assemble 
to  tea — or  rather  to  the  Gouter  as  the  evening 
repast  is  called — which  consists  of  a  sort  of  mix- 
ture of  tea  and  light  supper.  Bread,  butter,  and 
cakes  of  various  kinds — sweetmeats,  pastry,  ripe 
fruit,  and  confectionary,  overspread  the  tea-table 
— and  a  very  pleasant  banquet  it  invariably 
proves.  The  family  circle  is  almost  always  unex- 
pectedly enlarged,  at  this  re-union,  by  some 
friends  dropping  in, — ^for  the  Swiss,  and  indeed 
all  foreigners,  very  sensibly  make  their  calls 
upon  each  other  in  the  evening,  instead  of  break- 
ing in  upon  the  pursuits  of  the  morning — like 
the  English,  to  the  mutual  annoyance  of  the 
visitor  and  visited.  After  the  tea-table  is  cleared, 
the  party  amuse  themselves  with  needle-work, 
music,  conversation,  chess,  &c.  as  they  please — 
and  separate  at  the  hour  of  repose. 


SEPARATION  AND    SWITZERLAND.  101 

"  In  winter,  the  Soirees  or  evening  parties, 
are  very  frequent — and  the  amusements  consist 
of  music,  dancing,  cards,  conversation,  &c. 
I  am  inclined  to  suspect  they  are  rather  dull. 
At  least  in  the  few  Swiss  parties  I  have  seen, 
there  seems  to  reign  an  extraordinary  degree 
of  stiffness  and  constraint — the  ladies  seated 
in  a  formal  circle,  as  used  to  be  the  custom 
in  England  fifty  years  ago,  can  only  converse 
with  their  next  neighbour,  and  the  gentlemen 
keeping  in  a  close  knot  together,  without 
courage  to  break  this  chilling  spell,  talk  of 
politics — or  some  subject  purely  masculine. — 
This  icy  reserve  and  formality  in  their  parties, 
present  a  striking  contrast  to  the  ease  and  gaiety 
of  their  social  domestic  circle.  But  I  ought 
not  to  judge  of  Swiss  Soirees,  because,  at  this 
season,  every  one  being  in  the  country,  there 
are  few  regular  parties.  I  am  certainly  disposed 
— very  illiberally  you  will  say — to  attribute 
the  superior  morahty  and  good  habits  of  the 
Swiss  to  the  Protestant  religion. — Of  the 
Catholic  Cantons  I  have  yet  seen  nothing — but 
do   we  not    invariably    see,   in    all   Protestant 


102  SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

countries,    the    superior    state    of    morals — ^in 
England,  Scotland,  Switzerland,  Holland,  Ger- 
many, and  Sweden; — and  their  degradation  in 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  and  Portugal  ?     Though 
a  Protestant  country,  however,   Sunday  is  not 
kept  here  in  the  same  strict  manner  as  with  us. 
After  the  time  of  divine  service,  recreation  seems 
to  be  the  universal  object  of  all  ranks — and  you 
will  be  shocked  to  hear,  that  cards  are  often 
played  on  Sunday  evenings,  even  in  the  houses  of 
the  most  pious  and  orthodox  Swiss  Protestants. 
Yet  it  is  not  a  day  of  labour,  or  a  mere  holiday ; — 
a  day  in  which  religion  has  little  or  no  share,  as 
in  France  ; — neither  is  it  a  day  devoted  to  brutal 
debauchery,  or  gloomy  ascetical  privations,  in 
one  of  which  extremes  it  is  unfortunately  too 
often  spent  by  the  labouring  classes  in  England. 
Indeed,  even  among  the  middling  and  higher 
classes  in  our  own  country,  who  keep  Sunday 
strictly,  I  have  often  observed  that  it  is  felt  to 
be  a  dull  day — and  spent   in  listless  idleness, 
and  yawning  conversation ; — as  if  rational  em- 
ployment and  innocent  enjoyment  were  not  more 
consonant  to  the  spirit  of  the  gospel,  and  the 


SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND.    103 

benevolence  of  the  Divine  Being,  than  sluggish 
indolence  and  gloomy  dullness.  The  Evangeli- 
cal sect,  indeed,  think  that  Sunday  ought  to  be 
entirely  devoted  to  religious  exercises. — But  the 
bow  cannot  be  always  bent — the  mind  cannot 
dwell  for  ever  on  religious  abstraction  with 
advantage — neither  is  it  required  of  us.  Our 
Saviour  expressly  tells  us,  we  shall  not  be  heard 
for  our  '  much  speaking' — and  prescribes  to  us 
the  shortest  and  most  simple,  yet  most  compre- 
hensive form  of  prayer  that  ever  was  framed  ; 
— while  he  especially  forbids  us  to  'use  long 
prayers  as  the  Pharisees  do — and  vain  repetitions.' 
The  fervent  prayer  of  true  devotion,  breathed 
from  the  heart  in  few  and  unstudied  words,  we 
are  taught  to  believe  will  be  heard  at  the  throne 
of  grace,  while  hours  spent  in  mere  formal  lip- 
worship,  will  be  unavailing.  Sunday  here  seems 
divided  between  religious  duties  and  innocent 
amusement — and  though  I  certainly  disapprove 
of  cards,  and  think  them  a  very  unfit  mode  of 
employing  Sunday,  I  cannot  see  that  innocent 
recreations — such  for  instance  as  are  practised  in 
England  on  Christmas   Day — would  be   at  all 


104  SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

unbecoming  the  evening  of  the  day  of  rest,  of 
rejoicing  and  of  thanksgiving — when  its  serious 
duties  were  performed.  In  short,  I  think  gam- 
holing  a  very  good  thing — ^but  gambling  a  very 
bad  one. 

"  But  the  party  are  all  ready  to  set  off  on  an 
excursion  by  water,  across  the  Lake  to  the  rocks 
of  Meillerie — where  we  are  to  dine — and  eat 
cold  ham  and  chickens  very  sentimentally,  in 
honour  of  Julia  and  Rousseau — so  adieu  !" 


SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND.  105 

EXTRACT 

FROM 

LETTER  VI. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.     BALCARRIS. 

«  Martigny,  July  ISth,  1816. 

"  We  have  had  several  delightful  expeditions 
among  the  lakes  and  mountains  of  this  romantic 
country,  either  on  mules,  or  in  a  Char  k  banc 
alias  a  Char  a  cote,  a  merry  little  vehicle — 
something  like  one  half  of  an  inside  Irish 
jaunting  car,  the  seat  being  sideways,  and  hung 
so  low  that  you  can  step  out  and  in  without 
stopping  the  horse.  It  is  in  fact  the  only 
description  of  carriage  that  is  adapted  to  this 
mountainous  country.  Seated  in  one  of  these 
conveyances,  fancy  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland 
— ^and  in  another  Mademoiselle  Delemont  and 
myself,  all  setting  off  from  Lausanne,  in  the 
dawn  of  a  beautiful  summer  morning,  for  the 
great  St.  Bernard,  and  the  vale  of  Chamouni, 
an  excursion  of  ten  days.     Not  an  attendant  of 


106         SEPARATION  AND   SWITZERLAND. 

any  kind  with  us, — ^for  there  is  no  plague  among 
the  Alps  equal  to  ladies'  maids;  andgentlemen''s 
gentlemen  are  not  much  better.  Leaving  these 
incumbrances  behind,  we  trotted  along  a  narrow 
paved  road,  which  lay  through  the  vineyards  by 
the  side  of  the  lake,  but  far  above  its  level,  enjoy- 
ing the  magnificent  prospect  of  the  mountains 
of  Savoy,  and  the  rocks  and  woods  of  Meillerie, 
on  the  opposite  shore.  We  passed  through  Vevay, 
and  climbed  up  a  long  hill  to  visit  Clarens, 
which  ill  repaid  our  labour — for  notwithstanding 
all  the  rhapsodies  of  Rousseau,  echoed  by  Lord 
Byron  in  praise  of  its  beauty  and  enchantment 
— it  is  one  of  the  poorest  and  ugliest  villages 
in  Switzerland :  and  the  Chateau  de  Julie,  the 
house  where  Julia  herself  lived — is  the  most 
common,  vulgar,  bourgeoise  looking  place  you 
ever  beheld — stuck  upon  the  top  of  the  hill, 
without  a  tree  to  shade,  or  a  spot  of  turf  to 
grace  it. — One  cannot  conceive  it  possible  that  it 
could  ever  be  inhabited  by  any  person  of  taste. 
But  these  poets  are  sad  story  tellers  !  Conceive 
how  I  strained  my  longing  eyes  for  the  first 
view  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon — expecting  from 


SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND.  107 

Lord  Byron's  description,  to  see  an  ancient 
Gothic  Castle  frowning  over  the  Lake — with  its 
towers,  its  battlements,  and  fortifications ! — 
What  was  my  disappointment  to  be  shewn  a 
mean  paltry  modern  tenement  on  the  water"'s 
edge,  with  whitewashed  walls,  a  red  tiled  roof, 
and  plain  ordinary  dwelling-house  windows  ! — 
I  could  scarcely  believe  my  senses. — Certainly 
never  was  the  name  of  '  Castle'  so  misap- 
phed.  Neither  is  'the  dungeon'  a  dungeon, 
— inasmuch  as  we  found  it  full  of  fresh  air,  and 
the  sun  shining  into  it.  It  is  very  lofty,  and 
the  walls  '  and  the  floor  so  damp'  of  '  this  dark 
vault,'  were  perfectly  dry  as  well  as  light. — 
most  certainly  it  is  not  '  below  the  surface  of 
the  lake,'  much  less  could  they  have  heard  the 
water  '  knocking  over  their  heads,' — and  really, 
considering  that  it  is  a  prison,  I  think  it  is 
rather  an  agreeable  one.  I  know  that  I  should 
prefer  it  very  much  myself  to  Newgate  or  Bride- 
well— the  only  two  places  of  the  sort  with  the 
interior  of  which  I  am  acquainted.  To  me  the 
view  of  the  mountains  and  woods,  and  lake — 
with   the  *  white   sails'   skimming  past — which 


108  SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

the  prisoner  enjoyed  by  mounting  up  to  '  the 
barr'd  windows' — would  have  been  a  great  recom- 
mendation ; — and  surely  it  must  have  been  an 
amusement  to  him  to  see  that 

The  fish  swim  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  aU. 

Not  to  mention  the  '  small  green  isle,'  with  '  the 
three  tall  trees  upon  it.'  But  talking  of  trees 
reminds  me  of  Lord  Byron's  indignation  about  a 
few  trees  at  Clarens — (where  he  says  all  '  the 
trees  take  root  in  love,')  but  those  few  trees — 
which  were  dignified  by  the  name  of  '  Le  bosquet 
de  Julie,'  were,  it  seems,  uprooted  '  long  ago,  by 
the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  Monks  of  St. 
Bernard,  to  whom  the  ground  appertained — in 
order  to  enclose  a  vineyard  for  these  '  miserable 
drones  of  an  execrable  superstition.'  How  dis- 
graceful is  such  intemperate  abuse  of  these 
poor  monks — who  have  scarcely  any  other 
possession  than  this  little  spot  of  ground — and 
no  other  for  a  vineyard  !  They  use  it  to  make 
wine  indeed — ^but  it  is  only  to  pour  it  into  the 
sinking  heart  of  the  poor  traveller,  perishing 


SEPARATION  AND    SWITZERLAND.  109 

amidst  Alpine  storms — and  to  save  whom,  they 
brave  danger  and  death,  sacrificing  youth  and 
health,  and  social  enjoyment — voluntarily  sub- 
mitting to  solitary  exile  amidst  the  horrors  of 
eternal  winter — and  cheerfully  enduring  such 
poverty,  privation,  and  hardship,  as  religion 
alone  could  strengthen  them  to  support  !  Yet 
this  life  of  severe  self-denial  and  active  virtue, 
could  not  save  them  from  being  stigmatized  as 
the  'miserable  drones  of  an  execrable  superstition,** 
and  gnilty  of  *  brutal  selfishness!"*  And  this 
merely  because  they  once  cut  down  a  few  of  their 
own  trees!  Should  Lord  Byron  himself  ever 
ascend  St.  Bernard,  he  must  be  indebted  to  the 
aid  and  hospitality  of  these  '  miserable  drones'* — 
for  without  it  he  would  inevitably  perish.*  I 
speak  feelingly  on  this  subject,  having  been 
myself,  as  you  will  hereafter  see,  saved  by  their 
active  humanity  from  perishing  in  the  Alpine 
storms.     But  to  proceed. 


*  The  whole  of  this  passage  was  written  before  Lord 
Byron  paid  the  debt  of  nature — But  truth  forbids  that  it 
should  be  cancelled — while  his  illiberal  censure  remains  in  a 
work  so  widely  disseminated  through  the  world — as  his  poems. 


110  SEPARATION  AND   SWITZERLAND. 

"  At  Villeneuve  we  left  the  head  of  the  lake, 
where  the  Rhone  falls  into  it,  and  slept  at  Bex — 
an  excellent  inn — the  best  in  Switzerland.  We 
were  silly  enough  to  go  and  explore  some  neigh- 
bouring salt  'mines,'' — as  they  call  them — ^but 
instead  of  crystalline  chambers  and  transparent 
columns  of  spar,  as  our  fancy  had  represented — 
we  found  nothing  but  dirt  and  salt  water 
— from  a  subterraneous  spring  of  which  the 
salt  is  prepared.  How  desirable  it  would  be  to 
call  things  by  their  right  names ! 

"  I  spare  you  all  description  of  our  journey 
next  day,  though  we  passed  through  the  curious 
rocky  pass  of  St.  Maurice,  where  the  valley  of 
the  Rhone,  confined  within  two  enormous  preci- 
pices, is  crossed  by  the  single  arch  of  the  Roman 
bridge  of  St.  Maurice,  two  hundred  feet  in 
length,  thrown  from  the  Dent  de  Morcles  to 
the  Dent  du  Midi — though  we  travelled  up  the 
Valais,  of  which  such  enraptured  descriptions 
have  been  written — and  though  we  actually  saw 
the  beautiful  waterfall — with  the  truly  elegant 
name  of  the  Pisse-Vache.  We  arrived  early  at 
the  little  uncomfortable  inn  of  Martigny,  where 
we  slept.     Just  as  we  were  going  to  bed,   our  fat 


SEPARATION  AND    SWITZERLAND.  Ill 

landlady  walked  into  the  room,  declaring  that 
two  English  gentlemen  had  just  arrived,  who 
required  that  I  should  give  up  my  room  to 
them. — Colonel  Cleveland  flew  into  a  rage  at 
this  impudent  demand,  and  forthwith  a  bitter 
battle  ensued  between  him  and  this  old  virago— 
which  was  at  length  appeased  by  my  insisting 
upon  resigning  the  disputed  apartment  to  these 
two  most  courteous  knights ; — ^having  first  ascer- 
tained that  there  really  was  no  other  bed  in 
the  house  for  them,  and  that  my  apartment, 
in  case  of  need,  contained  two. — To  me  the 
inconvenience  was  nothing,  as  Mademoiselle 
Delemont  gave  me  a  share  of  her  bed.  Her 
room  adjoined  that  which  I  relinquished,  and 
of  which  the  two  gentlemen  speedily  took  pos- 
session, and,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
country,  sat  down  in  it  to  eat  their  supper. — 
So  thin  was  the  wooden  partition  that  divided 
the  two  rooms,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  hear 
every  word  they  said.  One  of  the  voices  I 
instantly  recognised — (who  do  you  think  it  was, 
Georgiana  ? — guess  !) — and  their  conversation, 
which  at  first  was  upon  the  events  of  the  day — 


112  SEPARATION  AND    SWITZERLAND. 

at  length  turned  upon  their  own  private  concerns, 
and  became  so  interesting,  that  no  noise  or  sound  I 
could  make  seemed  to  make  them  sensible  of  my 
near  vicinity.  Mademoiselle  Delemont  had  fallen 
fast  asleep j  but  as  1  could  not  submit  to  act  the 
part  of  a  listener  to  a  confidential  conversation 
between  two  friends — which,  however,  I  would 
have  given  the  world  to  have  heard — I  summoned 
courage,  at  last,  to  rap  against  the  wainscot,  and 
request  them  to  speak  lower.  I  spoke  in  French, 
in  order  to  spare  them  the  uneasiness  of  supposing 
that  they  had  been  overheard  by  an  English  ear. 
I  never  remember  doing  any  act  of  virtue  that 
cost  such  an  effort  of  resolution,  and  yet  I 
felt  as  much  ashamed  of  it — I  scarcely  know 
why — as  if  it  had  been  the  most  audacious  action 
possible. — It  was  well  they  could  not  see  me, 
for  1  felt  my  face  burn  like  fire — and  my  heart 
beat  as  if  it  would  come  out  of  my  side.  They 
spoke  to  me  very  politely  in  return  several  times, 
— ^but  having,  in  answer  to  the  fear  they  first 
expressed  of  having  disturbed  me — uttered  a 
laconic  and  scarcely  articulate  '  non  Monsieur," 
I  spoke  no  more. 


SEPARATION  AXD  SWITZERLAND.  113 

"  Of  course  what  I  did  overhear  of  this  inte- 
resting conversation,  I  must  not  tell  to  any  one, 
not  even  to  you  my  dear  sister, — and  if  I  did, 
the  mountain  would  produce  a  mouse.  One  thing 
only  I  may  tell  you,  that  they  were  not  speaking 
either  of  you  or  me. — '  But  what  then,"*  you  will 
say,  '  could  have  interested  you  so  much  in  it  ? 
Was  it' — It  is  -in  vain  to  ask — I  answer  nothing  : 
— and  now  cruelly  leaving  you  devoured  with 
curiosity,  which  you  know*  is  destined  never  to 
begratified — any  more  than  my  own, — for  I  heard 
enough  only  to  excite  curiosity,  not  to  satisfy 
it      1  have  only  to  say — good  night.'' 

Having  great  sympathy  with  the  disease  of 
curiosity,  with  which  we  are  many  times  grie- 
vously afflicted  ourselves,  we  have  compassion 
upon  that  of  the  reader,  and  therefore  take  upon 
ourselves  to  relieve  it  by  the  information,  that 
the  conversation  which  these  two  gentlemen 
were  holding,  when  the  fair  Caroline  so  self- 
denyingly  warned  them  to  desist,  or  at  least 
talk  in  a  lower  key  ; — seemed  to  relate  to  some 
project  of  marriage  which  the  gentleman  she  did 
not  know,  seemed  to  be  earnestly  pressing  upon 

VOL.  I.  I 


114  SEPARATION  AND  SWITZERLAND. 

him  she  did  know,  and  whom  she  had  at 
once  recognized.  This  said  project  did  not 
seem  much  to  the  taste  of  her  acquaintance, 
although  he  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the  fair 
lady  that  was  recommended  by  his  friend.  Her 
surname  was  not  mentioned,  though  her  christian 
name  the  ears  of  Caroline  plainly  heard  was 
'  Susan .''  And  this  '  Susan'  the  unknown  was 
strongly  urging  his  friend  to  marry  without  delay. 

"  You  will  marry  her  some  time,  Lindsay, 
and  why  not  now  ?  You  say  you  ha\e  no 
preference  for  any  other  woman — you  never  have 
had  a  mistress,  nor  any  foolish  low  entanglement, 
nor  low  attachment  of  any  sort ;  and  you,  who 
could  never  look  on  a  woman  with  the  eye  of 
desire,  except  she  were  possessed  of  elegance 
and  refinement — why  on  earth  should  you  hesi- 
tate now  to  marry  a  charming  woman,  whom 
you  have  so  long  admired  and  esteemed — who  is 
so  much  attached  to  you,  and  in  every  respect 
so  deserving  of  you.?  Your  Father,  whose 
strongest  desire  is  that  you  should  marry'' — 

At  this  moment,  Caroline  succeeded  in 
interrupting  their  conversation,  before  she  learnt 


SEPARATION  AND    SWITZERLAND.  115 

more.  Why  she  should  be  interested  in  the 
gentleman's  sentiments  or  projects  on  the  head 
of  matrimony  we  cannot  say — further  than  that 
we  have  always  remarked  that  the  subjects  of 
love  and  marriage  are  universally  the  most 
interesting  to  all  young  ladies. 


i2 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS  OF 
ST.  BERNARD. 


Loud  roar'd  the  tempest,  the  night  was  descending, 
Alone,  o'er  the  mountain,  a  fair  maid  was  wending ; 
Long  has  she  wander' d,  her  sinking  heart  fearing. 
Wild  rolls  her  eye,  but  no  help  is  appearing  ; 
No  kind  star  of  light  through  the  dark  sky  is  beaming, 
No  glimpse  of  the  cHff  where  the  watch-fire  is  gleaming. 

Anonymous. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  grey, 

Went  forth  to  tell  his  beads. 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair. 

Clad  in  pilgrim's  weeds. 

Then  stay,  fair  lady,  stay  awhile 

Within  this  cloister  wall ; 

See,  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  wind. 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall.  Ballad. 


LETTER  VII. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO    MRS.  BALCARRIS. 

"  Convent  of  St.  Bernard^  July  19- 

"  Before  day  break  this  morning,  I  was 
roused  by  the  bustle  our  neighbours  made  in 


THE  MOUNTAIN  OF   ST.   BERNARD.    117 

rising — and  being  determined,  since  I  was  thus 
prevented  from  sleeping  myself,  that  nobody 
else  should  sleep  in  peace — I  got  up,  awakened 
Mademoiselle  Delemont,  knocked  at  Mrs.  Cleve- 
land's door,  and  made  that  necessary  clamour 
for  breakfast,  without  which  we  have  long  since 
found  that  breakfast  is  not  to  be  had.  In  spite 
of  all  my  exertions,  however,  and  the  neighing 
or  braying  the  mules  made  at  the  door — prophe- 
tically foretelling,  I  suppose,  in  the  mule  tongue, 
the  evils  that  were  to  follow  our  delay — ^it  was 
long  past  seven  o'clock,  a  very  late  hour  for 
beginning  a  Swiss  journey,  before  we  actually 
set  off — mounted  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives 
upon  mules,  each  mule  adorned  with  bells, 
which  kept  up  such  a  tinkling  that  we  could  not 
hear  ourselves  speak — especially  as  the  stupid 
animals  cannot  be  induced  to  go  in  any  other 
fashion  than  in  a  long  string  one  behind 
another — so  that,  however  large  the  party,  you 
might  almost  as  well  be  alone,  except  for  the 
conversation  of  the  guides,  who  walk  by  your 
side,  and  are  extremely  intelligent,  entertaining, 
and  indeed  well  mannered.     We  had  not  pro- 


118    THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS 

ceeded  far,  before  Mrs.  Cleveland  stopped  to 
exchange  mules  with  her  husband,  being  fright- 
ened at  the  refractoriness  of  her  own.  The 
exchange  was  accordingly  effected,  one  of  the 
guides  keeping  close  to  her  bridle,  and  leading 
her  mule  over  every  bad  step.  But  we  had 
not  advanced  two  hundred  yards  further, 
when  she  again  called  out, — *  Good  God ! 
Oswald,  I  shall  be  killed  !  Let  me  get  off.' — 
and  off  she  got  in  a  moment.  '  There  is  no 
managing  these  horrid  mules,'  she  exclaimed. 

"  Colonel  Cleveland  laughed,  and  said, — 
'  It  is  all  from  want  of  practice,  my  love. — If 
you  had  had  a  mule  to  manage  all  this  time, 
instead  of  such  a  docile  animal  as  me — you  would 
have  been  quite  up  to  it.' 

"  '  I  think,  Adeline,'  I  said, '  it  partly  arises 
from  your  managing  the  mule  too  much.  It  is 
in  vain  attempting  to  manage  these  sort  of 
animals  at  all.  Let  them  have  their  own  way 
entirely — and  you  will  get  on.' 

"  '  Get  on  !  I  shall  be  thrown  off! — It  is 
such  a  vicious  skittish  brute, — the  more  I  hold 
it  in  the  worse  it  behaves.' 


OF   ST.   BERNARD,  119 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  very  reason,  thought  I, 
— ^but  1  said — '  Well  then,  suppose  you  change 
with  me — I'm  sure  mine  is  quiet  enough,  at 
least.' 

"  '  But  I  don't  like  to  break  your  neck  any 
more  than  my  own,  Caroline.' 

" '  O  !  never  mind  that ;  1  think  I  should 
hke  your's  better  than  this.'— Accordingly  we 
exchanged  steeds— as  it  proved,  much  to  our 
mutual  satisfaction.  But  Mrs.  Cleveland  found 
the  side-saddles  so  uneasy,  and  the  pace  of  the 
mules  so  fatiguing,  that  she  was  still  only  able 
to  proceed  at  a  foot's  pace ;— and  we  had  not 
proceeded  many  miles  further,  before  another 
misadventure,  arising  from  another  mule's  misbe- 
haviour, occurred.— As  we  were  crossing  a  moun- 
tain stream,  Mademoiselle  Delemont's  mule, 
probably  in  order  to  cool  itself,  for  the  day  was 
intensely  hot — very  deliberately  laid  itself  down 
in  the  deepest  part,  without  seeming,  in  the  least 
to  advert  to  the  trifling  circumstance  of  her  being 
upon  its  back— and  began  to  roll  itself  in  the 
water,  apparently  much  to  its  own  satisfaction. 
By  the  activity  of  the  guides,  she  was  instantly 


120  THE  MOUNTAIN   AND  MONKS 

rescued,  without  any  other  damage  than  being 
completely  soused  over  head  ; — and  she  was  the 
first  to  laugh  at  her  own  irresistibly  laughable^ 
but  extremely  disagreeable  adventure.  It  was 
doubly  distressing,  because  not  one  of  the  party 
had  brought  any  clothes  whatever,  excepting 
what  were  necessary  for  the  night.  The  water 
into  which  she  had  fallen,  flowed  immediately 
from  a  glacier,  consequently  was  literally  as  cold 
as  ice.  She  had  previously  been  extremely 
heated,  and  she  now  turned  as  pale  as  marble — 
her  teeth  chattered  in  her  head,  and  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  Having  sent  Colonel  Cleve- 
land and  the  guides  quite  out  of  sight,  and 
retreated  with  her  behind  a  rock,  I  persuaded 
her  instantly  to  let  me  pull  off  all  her  dripping 
clothes,  and  to  put  on  the  change  of  linen  and 
stockings  she  had  provided  for  the  next  morning, 
and  having  made  over  to  her  one  of  my  own 
petticoats — by  which  means  we  had  each  one — - 
I  composed  for  her  a  close  upper  garment  in  a 
minute,  of  a  large  cloth  cloak,  which  luckily  had 
sleeves,  sewed  up  in  front,  (you  see  the  good  of 
always  carrying  a  needle  and  thread),  which  I 


OF  ST.  BERNARD.  121 

had  hung  over  my  mule's  back,  as  a  protection 
for  myself  against  the  polar  climate  of  St.  Bernard 
at  night.  Her  long  wet  hair  we  tucked  up  under 
a  night  cap,  upon  the  top  of  which  was  stuck 
one  of  the  guide's  hats — and  thus  curiously 
equipped,  she  again  mounted  the  delinquent 
mule,  and  we  proceeded  on  our  way. 

"  We  stopped  at  the  first  cottage  we  came 
to,  which  was  the  little  Alpine  inn  or  chalet  at 
St.  Branchier.  There  we  got  poor  Made- 
moiselle Delemonfs  wet  clothes  dried, — made 
her  swallow  some  hot  spirits  and  water,  and 
there  we  all  dined — ^if  dinner  a  repast  could  be 
called,  which  consisted  of  fine  mountain  straw- 
berries and  cream,  bread  and  milk,  cheese, 
butter,  and  eggs.  At  length  we  set  off  again, 
and  being  advised  by  the  guides  to  push  on  as 
fast  as  possible,  to  escape  the  peril  of  being 
benighted  amongst  the  rocks  and  snows  which 
lay  hid  between  us  and  the  Hospice  of  St. 
Bernard,  I  led  the  way  with  my  mule,  which 
was  by  far  the  most  brisk  animal  in  the  party. 
We  proceeded  at  a  tolerable  rate  till  after  we 
passed  the    hamlet  St.   Pierre,  and  soon  after- 


122  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS 

wards  the  region  of  all  human  habitation.  The 
narrow  path  now  became  more  steep  and  rugged 
at  every  step — in  many  parts  it  was  almost  preci- 
pitous. At  length  all  traces  of  any  track  ceased. 
I  stopped  and  gazed  around — ^but  I  was  alone ; 
no  hviman  being  was  near  me — and  the  savage 
rocks,  rearing  their  gigantic  points  amidst  the 
vast  imbedded  masses  of  snow,  that  seemed  as  if 
they  had  lain  unmoved  from  creation,  and  the 
white  summits  of  the  frozen  Alps,  towering  far 
above  them,  now  dimly  seen  through  the  fast 
gathering  stormy  clouds,  that  darkened  the 
closing  sky — were  the  only  objects  that  met 
my  view.  The  roar  of  the  milk  white  torrent 
of  the  glacier,  and  the  wild  scream  of  the 
eagle  as  it  passed  me  at  a  vast  distance, 
seeking  the  refuge  of  its  inaccessible  eyrie-^were 
the  only  sounds  that  met  my  ear.  I  stopped — 
expecting  every  moment  that  my  companions, 
who  I  supposed  were  almost  close  behind  me, 
would  come  up.  But  the  rocks  and  winding 
path  made  it  impossible  to  see  any  part  of  the 
path  I  had  come.  I  listened — but  heard  no 
sound  of  their  approach.     The  blackness  of  the 


OF  ST.   BERNARD.  128 

heavens  spread  all  around,  excepting  where  one 
spot  of  deep  angry  red  from  the  now  sunk  sun, 
shot  a  stormy  glare  that  looked  awfully  porten- 
tous. In  a  few  minutes  darkness  seemed  all  at 
once  to  overwhelm  me — the  clouds  descended 
around  me — and  a  tremendous  blast,  rushing 
down  from  the  \ery  summit  of  the  Alps,  and 
driving  before  it  a  furious  storm  of  snow  and 
hail,  whirled  around  my  head.  I  really  felt 
appalled — ^my  blood  froze  in  my  veins  with  cold 
and  horror,  and  the  icy  chill  of  the  piercing 
wind  penetrated  my  very  soul.  I  did  not 
doubt  that  I  had  wandered  from  the  path,  and 
lost  myself  amidst  the  impassible  heights  of  the 
Alps.  I  remembered  something  like  a  path  I 
had  passed,  that  diverged  from  what  seemed  to 
me  then  the  right  one — which  I  now  fancied  I 
should  have  taken,  and  I  was  confirmed  in  this 
belief  by  my  companions  not  coming  up— 
although  I  had  stood  there  many  minutes — 
which  then  seemed  to  me  as  many  ages.  Nor  did 
I  see  any  thing  of  the  houses  of  refuge,  which  I 
remembered  to  have  heard  were  built  in  every  pas- 
sage of  the  Alps  for  the  shelter  of  the  perishing 


1S4    THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS 

traveller.  Convinced  I  had  lost  the  road,  and 
anxious  to  regain  my  companions,  I  instantly 
attempted  to  turn  back,  but  in  vain.  The  mule 
resolutely  refused  to  face  about,  and  stood 
immoveable  as  a  pillar  of  rock,  wholly  unmindful 
of  my  exertions  with  the  whip  and  bridle.  I 
found,  too,  that  I  could  not,  for  a  moment,  face 
the  fury  of  the  blast,  which  was  behind  me, 
so  that  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  stand  still  and 
perish  of  cold — or  go  on,  and  probably  break  my 
neck.  I  chose  the  latter,  and  abandoned  myself 
entirely  to  the  guidance  of  the  mule — who  I 
had  no  doubt  had  often  been  at  the  convent  of 
St.  Bernard  before — ^and  might,  I  hoped,  in  his 
sagacity,  find  his  way  to  it  again — ^as  the  only 
chance  of  saving  myself  in  the  horrors  of  this 
&torm.  I  was  rejoiced  to  see  him  prick  up  his 
ears,  and  set  forward  with  considerable  spirit, 
but  darkness  thickened  around  us,  and  the 
tempest  increased  in  fury.  The  mule  now 
tottered  among  broken  slippery  rocks — now 
plunged  into  the  drifting  snow — from  which  it 
extricated  itself  with  great  difficulty.  But  what 
was  my  horror,  when  I  suddenly  foiuid  by  the 


OF    ST.    BERNARD.  125 

motion,  that  the  animal  was  going  down  a  steep 
declivity — *  Down  !  down  to  destruction  V  I 
thought — for  well  did  I  know  that  St.  Bernard 
was  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  the  Alps,  the  highest 
habitation  of  the  Old  World — how  then  could 
the  way  to  it  be  down  ?  I  convulsively  grasped 
the  bridle  and  stopped  the  mule — the  next  step 
might  be  my  last — might  precipitate  me  over  a 
precipice,  hidden  by  snows,  into  a  bottomless 
abyss — on  the  very  brink  of  which,  perhaps,  I  now 
stood.  I  could  not  see  one  foot  before  me — yet 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  To  turn  back  was  impos- 
sible— to  stand  still  certain  death :  Cold,  icy  cold, 
had  already  benumbed  my  limbs  and  crept  to 

my  very  heart — yet  to  go  on my  very  soul 

seemed  to  shrink  from  the  horrible  death  that 
seemed  to  await  me.  The  next  step  might  plunge 
me  into  destruction  !  O,  the  horrors  of  that 
moment ! — in  solitude  and  darkness,  and  amidst 
the  howling  storm — alone — lost  on  the  pathless 
precipices  of  the  Alps  !  I  called  loudly  and 
repeatedly  for  help — but  no  sound  was  returned 
except  the  redoubled  roar  of  the  storm.  Despe- 
rately nerving  myself  with  courage,  I  urged  the 


126  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS 

mule  forward — expecting  every  uncertain  step 
the  animal  made,  would  precipitate  us  to 
destruction.  But  still  a  few  paces — still  a  few 
paces  more — and  then  it  stood  stock  still — 
snorting  and  immoveable. 

"Now — ^now  I  felt  myself  on  the  utmost 
slippery  verge  of  that  tremendous  precipice — 
down  which  the  smallest  motion  would  hurl  me 
to  destruction.  Shuddering  with  horror,  my 
head  turned  giddy — and  my  senses  nearly  de- 
serted me,  as  I  still  grasped  the  bridle,  and 
determined  to  wait  there  for  succour — in  the 
faint  hope  that  the  assistance  my  friends  would 
surely  send  out  to  seek  me,  as  soon  as  they 
reached  the  convent,  might  find  me  before  I 
perished.  But  cold,  icy  cold,  seemed  to  freeze 
my  blood,  and  I  felt  I  could  not  long  resist  it. 
At  that  very  moment,  when  despair  seized 
me,  I  fancied  I  heard  a  human  voice — I  cried 
with  the  loud  voice  of  despair — ^but  in  vain ; — I 
listened  again — no  sound  did  I  hear,  and  my 
heart  sunk  within  me.  All  was  silent.  Then 
again  I  heard  the  sound — again  I  shouted 
repeatedly  and  incessantly — and  after  an  interval 


OF    ST.   BERNARD.  1^7 

of  agonizing  suspense,  voices — human  voices 
behind  me  greeted  my  ear, — and  two  travellers 
on  foot — attended  by  a  guide,  carrying  a  sort 
of  horn  lanthorn,  came  up  to  me.  You  may 
conceive  my  feelings — ^but  no  ! — ^^unless  you  had 
been  on  the  mule's  back  yourself,  you  never 
could, — unless  you  had  been  like  me,  lost  amidst 
pathless  and  inaccessible  Alps,  alone,  in  the 
darkness  and  horrors  of  that  howling  storm,  and 
shuddering  on  the  brink  of  that  unseen  precipice 
— unable  either  to  retreat  or  advance  a  single 
step — you  could  not  conceive  my  feelings, — 
when  thus  unexpectedly  snatched  from  the 
instantaneously  impending  and  horrible  death 
which  awaited  me.  And  all  this  unutterable 
joy  arose  from  the  appearance  of  three  men  and 
a  lanthorn, — which  certainly  at  any  other  period 
of  my  life  would  not  have  afforded  me  a  ray  of 
satisfaction.  They  had  not  heard  my  cries — 
the  blast  which  bore  their  voices  to  me,  had 
swept  mine  away  before  it,  from  them — and 
their  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  me  sitting 
upon  my  mule,  alone  in  the  dark,  in  such  a 
storm — surpassed  description.     I  found  that   I 


1^8  THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  MONKS 

was  in  the  right  road  to  St.  Bernard — where 
they  were  going — and  their  lanthorn  revealed  to 
me  that  instead  of  being  on  the  brink  of  a  pre- 
'  cipice,  as  I  had  concluded — I  was  stuck  fast  on 
the  margin  of  a  stream  of  water,  now  choked 
up  with  snow,  which  flowed  at  the  bottom  of 
that  steep  short  declivity  down  which  the  mule 
had  carried  me — so  much  to  my  horror.  But 
the  animal  showed  his  sagacity  in  not  going  into 
the  bed  of  the  brook,  because  he  never  could 
have  got  out  again  at  that  part  of  its  channel, 
where  it  is  usually  crossed,  from  the  drift  of 
snow.  The  guide  however  of  these  travellers 
soon  found  a  safe  passage  a  little  higher  up 

"  But  my  fears — relieved  for  myself — were 
now  awakened  for  my  friends,  of  whom  this 
party  had  seen  nothing,  and  I  could  not  but  fear 
that  they  had  lost  their  way,  and  that  some 
dreadful  accident  had  befallen  them.  But  I 
was  re-assured,  first  by  the  assurance  of  the  two 
gentlemen  that  they  had  come  up  the  mountains 
in  a  different  direction,  having  been  geologising  ; 
and  had  only  joined  the  direct  path  fromMartigny 
to  St.  Bernard,  a  little  below  this  spot — so  that 


OF   ST,    BERNARD.  129 

it  was  probable  our  party  were  still  behind  them 
— and  next  by  their  guide,  who  when  he  heard 
what  men  were  with  them, — declared  that  no 
mischief  could  possibly  have  befallen  them  with 
Pierre  and  Jaques  for  their  guides. 

Clearly  the  best  thing  we  could  do  for 
them,  was  to  endeavour  to  reach  the  convent  as 
fast  as  possible,  and  send  them  out  assistance. 
I  wished  to  dismount  and  walk,  being  nearly 
frozen — ^but  the  guide  recommended  me  to  trust 
to  the  mule's  feet  rather  than  my  own — the  storm 
and  snow  drift  rendering  walking  both  difficult 
and  dangerous  ;  and  sensible  that  I  should  mate- 
rially retard  their  progress  on  foot,  I  retained  my 
seat,  though  my  benumbed  limbs  were  nearly 
frozen.  One  of  the  genjtlemen,  whom  I  had 
immediately  recognized,  though  he  evidently 
took  me  for  an  entire  stranger,  walked  close  by 
my  side,  wrapped  me  in  his  cloak,  of  which  he 
divested  himself,  and  supported  me  the  whole 
way,  with  the  most  attentive  humanity.  We 
had  not  gone  far  before  the  barking  of  dogs 
saluted  our  delighted  senses — and  the  advance 
of  two  glimmering  hghts,  and  the  shouts  that 

VOL.    I.  K 


130      THE    MOUNTAIN    AND    MONKS 

were  interchanged  on  both  sides  assured  us 
we  were  near  the  convent,  from  whence  a  party 
of  Lay  Brethren  had  come  forth  in  the  storm, 
with  their  dogs,  to  look  out  for  unfortunate  tra- 
vellers. I  intreated  the  good  brothers  to  go 
forward  to  meet  my  friends,  which  they  promised 
to  do  as  soon  as  they  had  assisted  us  up  the  last 
ascent,  rendered  dangerous  by  the  storm,  to  the 
convent — which,  after  a  severe  struggle  with  the 
fury  of  the  elements,  we  at  length  accomplished 
in  safety. 

The  Prior  and  Monks  met  us  at  the  gate, 
and  as  the  lights  they  bore  flashed  upon  my  face, 
I  remember  Mr.  Lindsay  exclaiming,  as  I  was 
lifted  from  my  mule — '  Good  God,  Miss  St.  Clair !' 
I  should  have  fallen  upon  the  ground,  my 
benumbed  limbs  being  wholly  unable  to  support 
me,  if  he  had  not  caught  me  and  supported  me 
upon  a  chair — but  1  was  not  insensible,  though 
nearly  speechless. 

'  Good  heavens  !  she  is  dying — she  is  dying ! 
Help!  help!  water,  Heathcote !' 

His  friend  snatched  from  the  table  a  horn  full 
of  cold  water,  and  held  it  to  my  stiffened  lips,  but 


OF    ST.    BERNARD.  131 

I  would  swallow  none  of  it,  so  he  dashed  it 
over  my  face,  which  sent  a  fresh  chill  through 
my  benumbed  frame.  At  length  Mr.  Lindsay 
called  out  for  'wine  !"* 

'Brandy,'  said  the  Prior,  '  Brandy  !'  running 
into  the  room,  with  some  hot  brandy  and  water 
in  his  hand,  which  he  put  gradually  into  my 
lips  with  a  teaspoon.  Under  this  treatment  I 
soon  revived,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  speak,  1 
desired  succour  might  be  sent  out  to  my  friends, 
which  was  immediately  done.  The  storm  party 
however  returned,  in  about  half  an  hour,  bring- 
ing with  them  Pierre,  one  of  our  guides  whom 
they  had  met,  and  from  whom  we  learnt,  that 
alarmed  at  the  tremendous  threatening  of  the 
storm.  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  and  Made- 
moiselle Delemont  had  turned  back  before  they 
gained  the  Alpine  region,  where  its  fury  reigned, 
and  taken  shelter  for  the  night  at  the  little  chalet 
of  St.  Pierre.  Their  fears  for  me  had  been  at  least 
as  acute  as  mine  for  them.  The  guide  indeed 
seemed  transported  to  find  I  had  reached  the 
convent  in  safety,  for  his  alarm  he  assured 
me  was  excessive,  at  finding  I  had  proceeded 
K  2 


132       THE    MOUNTAIN    AND    MONKS 

forwards  through  the  storm  alone.  But  anxious 
to.  exculpate  himself  and  his  colleague  from 
the  apparent  neglect  of  not  taking  better  care 
of  me,  for  which  the  two  English  gentlemen 
called  him  to  account,  he  justly  blamed  the 
slowness  of  the  other  two  ladies,  by  which 
we  were  benighted — and  the  impossibility  of 
leaving  the  bridle  of  '  MadameV  mule  for  a 
moment  from  her  timidity,  besides  that  one  of  the 
guides  was  constantly  employed  by  Mademoiselle 
Delemont,  who  is  a  great' botanist,  ingathering 
plants  for  her  from  the  rocks — and  that  they 
were  burdened  with  a  basket  of  wine  for  '  M.  le 
Colonel"* — and  with  the  baggage  of  '  Madame 
sa  femme ;'' — so  that  it  was  impossible  for  either 
of  them  to  leave  the  other  ladies,  or  to  come  up 
with  me,  when  I  was  once  separated  from  them. 
He  blamed  my  imprudence  in  advancing  so  far 
before  them — which  I  had  done  inadvertently— 
since  he  observed  if  the  '  Chevaliers''  and  their 
guide  had  not  providentially  overtaken  me,  I 
should  in  all  probability  have  perished  in  a  snow 
drift. 

In  an   hour  or  two  the  storm  abated,   the 
tempestuous  wind  no  longer  howled  round  the 


OF    ST.   BERNARD.  133 

convent  walls,  but  swept  past  in  sullen  moans. 
The  courageous  Jacques  set  off  again  on  foot  to 
St.  Pierre,  lighted  by  the  waning  moon  which 
had  now  risen,  to  carry  to  my  friends  the  news  of 
my  safety.  I  soon  completely  recovered — and 
after  all  my  perils  and  sufferings,  I  passed  an 
uncommonly  pleasant  evening — the  very  remem- 
brance of  my  desolate  condition  amidst  the 
pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm,  perhaps  giving 
tenfold  zest  to  the  blazing  wood  fire,  on  the 
ample  hearth,  and  the  hospitable  supper-table 
in  the  refectory  of  the  good  Monks. — The  Prior 
and  one  of  the  other  three  Monks,  who  supped 
with  us,  were  men  of  very  superior  mind  and  infor- 
mation— unceasing  flow  of  conversation,  and  the 
most  polished  and  gentlemanly  manners ;  much 
more  like  men  of  the  world,  embued  with  the  tone 
and  air  of  good  society,  than  solitary  anchorites 
— living  at  the  summit  of  the  Alps,  among  the 
eternal  snows  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard. 

Mr.  Heathcote,  whom  I  never  saw  before, 
seems  to  possess  great  abilities  and  knowledge, 
but  not  such  brilliancy  of  talent  and  conversation 
as  his  friend  Horace  Lindsay,  who  I  remember 


134       THE    MOUNTAIN    AND    MONKS 

was  a  particular  favourite  of  yours  and  mine, 
which  was  by  no  means  the  case  with  all  stars  of 
fashion.  But  he  was  the  favourite  of  all  the 
world,  excepting  indeed  of  my  mother,  who  never 
seemed  to  like  him,  and  never  invited  him  to 
the  house,  which,  considering  that  he  is  the  only 
son  and  heir  of  Lord  Montford  was  rather 
surprising.  I  suppose  she  thought  him  unat- 
tainable. 

It  was  certainly  very  strange,  that  a  man 

whom  I  saw  for  the  last  time  at  Lady  S 's 

brilliant  assembly,  I  should  next  meet  in  a 
snow  storm  on  the  Alps,  and  spend  the  even- 
ing with  him  in  the  convent  of  St.  Bernard, 
at  the  very  summit  of  the  habitable  world. — 
I  was  the  only  female,  not  only  in  the  party, 
but  in  the  convent.  I  cannot  say,  however,  that 
this  gave  me  any  distress,  nor  even  any  embar- 
rassment; and  the  singularity  of  our  situation, 
the  novelty  of  the  society  of  the  Monks,  and 
the  amusing  conversation  of  the  English  tra- 
vellers, made  the  evening  pass  so  delightfully, 
that  I  was  sorry  when  it  was  necessary  for  me 
to  discover  it  to  be  time  to  retire  to  my  own  room. 


OF     ST.    BERNARD.  135 

I  passed  the  night  beneath  a  quilt  of  eider  down 
— a  light  warm  coverlet  used  in  many  parts  of 
Germany  and  Switzerland  as  a  necessary  defence 
against  the  extreme  cold  of  winter.  This  com- 
fortable covering,  I  observe  writers  of  travels 
always  choose  to  call  a  feather  bed,  though  it 
bears  no  resemblance  to  one — and  they  complain 
of  being  suffocated  beneath  it,  while  I  only 
longed  that  this  were  larger,  for  it  was  rather 
too  short,  and  that  instead  of  one,  I  could  have 
got  three : — for  so  piercing  was  the  cold,  that 
any  number  would  have  been  acceptable. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


HARMONY  AND  DISCORD. 


Hark ! — what  harmony  is  this  ; 
Which  strikes  the  list'ning  sense  ? 

Where  through  the  long  drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Gray. 

Is  there  a  heart  that  music  cannot  melt, 
Ah  me  !  how  is  that  rugged  heart  forlorn ; 

Is  there — who  ne'er  those  mystic  transports  felt 
Of  solitude  and  melancholy  born  ?        Beat  tie. 


LETTER  VIII. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO  MRS.  BALCARRIS. 

Martigny,  July  20. 

Having  inquired  from  the  Prior  before  we 
separated  for  the  night,  the  hour  of  matins, 
I  attended  them  next  morning  in  the  Church 
of  the  Convent,  grateful  to  have  an  opportunity 


HARMONY    AND    DISCORD.  137 

of  joining  in  public  worship — from  this — the 
highest  dwelling-place  of  the  earth,  conse- 
crated to  Him  who  made  it — and  offer  up  the 
fervent  thanksgiving  of  my  heart  to  that 
Almighty  Power  whose  mercy  had  delivered 
me  from  the  perils  of  the  tempest  of  the  night. 

After  service  I  accompanied  the  Prior,  who 
is  passionately  fond  of  music — into  the  organ 
gallery — where,  at  his  earnest  request,  I  played 
and  sung  an  anthem,  and  some  sacred  music. 
I  found  on  leaving  it,  that  Mr.  Lindsay,  and 
lastly  Mr.  Heathcote,  had  been  my  auditors — 
the  sounds  of  the  organ  guiding  them  to  the 
church  on  descending  to  the  refectory.  Mr. 
Lindsay  expressed  his  surprise  that  he  had 
never  heard  me  sing  or  play  in  any  of  the 
musical  parties  in  which  we  have  met  in  London. 
I  could  not  help  laughing,  and  asked  him  '  if  he 
had  ever  thought  upon  any  of  those  occasions — 
that  he  had  not  had  enough  of  music  !' 

'  Enough — too  much  ! — to  perfect  satiety  of 
such  mechanical  performances  as  one  is  doomed 
to  hear  for  ever  in  those  assemblies — where 
every  fair  executor  is  emulously  labouring  to 
execute   something    so    difficult — that    as    Dr. 


188  HARMONY  AND    DISCORD. 

Johnson  said — one  is  sorry  it  is  not  impossible: — 
but  of  music — real  music — music  which  speaks 
to  the  soul — I  never  can  have  enough.  How 
can  you  answer  it  to^our  conscience,  to  rob  the 
w^orld  of  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  hearing 
you  sing  ?"* 

'  If  you  think  it  is  exquisite^  I  said, 
laughing,  '  it  is  because  you  hear  it  in  this  lofty 
church — and  feel  that  you  are  listening  to  it 
in  the  convent  of  St.  Bernard,  on  the  summit  of 
the  Alps  !  If  you  had  heard  it  in  a  London 
drawing-room,  you  would  have  thought  it  just 
as  tiresome  as  any  of  the  music  of  which  you 
complain  so  feelingly.' 

'  Impossible ! — do  not  traduce  my  taste  and 
discrimination  so  much ! — I  should  not  be  capable 
of  feeling  the  heavenly  enjoyment  of  true  music 
if  I  could,  in  any  situation,  mistake  what  I  have 
just  heard  for  that  laboured,  tortured,  artificial 
system  of  sounds — that  passes  for  music' 

'  Music  is  indeed  a  heavenly  enjoyment' —  I 
replied.  « It  is  the  only  thing  on  earth  which 
even  the  imaginations  of  men  have  deemed 
worthy  of  having  a  place  in  heaven.' 


HARMONY    AND    DISCORD.  139 

Mr.  Lindsay  looked  at  me  as  if  struck  with 
the  remark — at  last  he  said — very  seriously — 
'  Yes — Miss  St.  Clair,  there  is  one  other  thing 
on  earth  which  the  imaginations  of  men  have 
placed  in  heaven — and  without  which  there 
would  be  no  heaven  for  us." 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?'' 

'  Woman  !  with  whose  enchanting  form 
alone,  our  imagination  peoples  heaven.' 

'  That  is  very  flattering  to  us  indeed,'  I 
said,  laughing — '  but  are  there  no  men  there  ?"* 

''  Why  no — I  never  fancy  any  men  there — 
I  suppose  men  are  converted  into  women  before 
they  can  be  admitted  into  heaven.' 

'  Heaven  keep  me  away  from  it  then,  I 
say,'  exclaimed  Mr.  Heathcote — '  I  beg  to 
decline  that  transformation.' 

'  But  don't  you  fancy  heaven  full  of  angels 
of  light,  and  cherubim  s,  and  seraphims  ?^  I 
enquired. 

'  As  to  cherubims — I  always  fancy  them 
little  rosy  chubby  children — flying  about  in 
the  air ; — and  as  to  seraphims,  I  have  no  very 


140  HARMONY   AND    DISCORD. 

clear  idea  about  them — except  that  they  are 
dressed  in  blue,  and  blowing  trumpets.' 

'  Like  hussars' — said  Mr.  Heathcote. 

'  And  as  for  angels,'  continued  Mr.  Lind- 
say— ^not  heeding  him — *with  thousands  and 
ten  thousands  of  which  the  grand  empyreal 
vault  of  heaven  is  peopled  ; — when  we  try  to 
figure  angels — our  fancy  only  represents  women 
— or  rather  some  one  woman — some  being  whose 
form  and  countenance  realize^  all  that  our 
fondest  fancy  can  paint  of  heaven.' 

'  O  Lord  !  Lord  !'  exclaimed  Mr.  Heath- 
cote— '  what  stuff !' 

'  Acknowledge  its  truth,  Heathcote !  you 
yourself,  even  you — rugged  of  soul  as  you  are — 
must  acknowledge  that  when  you  fancy  angels, 
it  is  in  the  form  of  women.' 

'  Well,  if  it  is ;  all  the  evils  and  mischief 
in  this  world  are  caused  by  women — so  it  is  but 
fair  they  should  make  some  amends  for  it  in 
the  other.' 

'  You  wretch  ! — you  monster  !' — exclaimed 
Mr.  Lindsay,  '  do  you  dare  to  vilify  woman  ? — 


HARMONY    AND    DISCORD.  141 

do  you  presume  to  breathe  a  syllable  against 
the  power  and  purity  of  that  benignant  being 
who  has  civilized  the  world,  and  humanized 
man?  Do  not  you  allow  that  her  blessed 
influence  alone"* — 

Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros  ? 

<  But  you  are  not  worth  notice.' 

Then  turning  from  him  he  said  very  seri- 
usly  to  me — '  Now  Miss  St.  Clair,  there  is  one , 
thing  which  I  am  anxious  to  know,  and  which 
you  can  tell  me— and  I   think  you  will  tell  me 
truly.'     He  seemed  to  expect  an  answer. 

« Certainly— ^/  I  tell  you,   I   will  tell  you 

truly.' 

'  I  am   sure   of  that— but  I    want  you  to 

promise  to  tell  me.' 

'  Why  if  you  are  so  anxious  I  should 
promise  beforehand— it  must  be  because  you 
think  if  I  knew  what  it  was,  I  would  not  tell 
you— so  I  think  it  will  be  most  prudent  not  to 
promise — till- you  tell  me  what  it  is.' 

'I  want  to  know,  whether  when  women 
fancy  what  angels  are  like,  they  fancy  them 
like  men.' 


14^  HARMONY    AND    DISCORD. 

'  To  be  sure  they  do^you  simpleton,'' 
«aid  Mr.  Heathcote. 

'  Be  quiet  Heathcote  !' 

'  Let  me  consider — what  do  I  fancy 
angels  like?  Not  like  a  man  certainly, — far 
fairer — and  softer — and  more  slender — and 
more  beautiful, — and  far  more  graceful  too — 
very  unlike  a  man — I  cannot  fancy  a  man  an 
angel  at  all/ 

'  Then  you  fancy  them  like  women  too,' 
said  Mr.  Lindsay — '  with  all  the  softness,  and 
beauty,  and  delicacy,  and  purity  of  your  sex."* 

'  No  not  exactly  like  women  either — though 
more  like  women  than  men — but  something 
more  beautiful,  and  far  more  etherial.' 

'  I  can  fancy  nothing  more  beautiful — 
more  enchanting  ! — I  fancy  angels  with  the  same 
form — the  same  grace — the  same  heavenly 
expression — the  same  soft  blue  eyes — the  same 
curling  hair** — 

'  And  the  same  petticoats,**  said  Heathcote. 

'No — not  the  same  petticoats,'  said  Mr. 
Lindsay,  joining  in  our  laugh — '  far  shorter' — 

*And  more  transparent  I  suppose' — said 
Mr.  Heathcote. 


HARMONY    AND    DISCORD.  143 

'  Suppose,**  said  I,  *  we  leave  the  angels  for 
the  Monks ; — and  go  to  breakfast,  for  I  rather 

think  they  are  waiting  for  us.' 

'  To  breakfast — with  what  appetite  we  may' 
— repeated  Mr.  Lindsay,  mechanically,  as  if  he 
was  thinking  of  something  else. 

'  My  appetite,  I  know,  is  very  good,'  said 
Mr.  Heathcote,  as  we  went  into  the  refectory. 

At  breakfast,  he  still  kept  harping  upon 
the  '  heavenly'  conversation  we  had  had,  and 
rallying  his  friend  on  his  total  unfitness  for  any 
society  except  that  of  angels  and  women—- 
whom  he  had  satisfactorily  proved  were  one  and 
the  same  thing — '  That  is,  you  affect  to  think 
so,'  he  said,  '  for  you  cannot  seriously  think  that 
women  are  by  nature  the  equals  of  men.' 

'  Not  the  equals  !' — exclaimed  Mr.  Lindsay, 
— '  they  are  our  superiors  in  all  the  noblest 
qualities  of  our  nature,' — and  he  poured  forth 
a  most  eloquent  eulogium — to  which  I  regret  I 
cannot  do  justice — '  upon  that  sex  to  whom  life, 
in  its  every  stage,  owes  its  consolation  and  its 
charm,'  ending  it  with  some  lively  remarks,  and 
with  quoting  from  Burns  : — 


144  HARMONY    AND    DISCORD, 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes  O, 
Her  prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses  O  ! 

Mr.  Heathcote,  however,  still  continued  to 
inveigh  against  women,  and  certainly  his  unmer- 
ciful strictures  did  not  spare  us. 

Mr.  Lindsay,  who  proved  a  most  eloquent 
champion  of  women,  told  him  '  he  was  like  the 
serpent,  envying  the  paradise  he  could  not 
enjoy,  and  threatened  to  lampoon  him  as  he 
deserved,  for  his  illiberal  sarcasms  against 
our  sex."* 

'  For  God's  sake,  only  don't  put  me  into 
rhyme  ! — I  hate  that ;'  said  Mr.  Heathcote. 

'  Then  I  will  assuredly  put  you  into  rhyme,' 
replied  Mr.  Lindsay.  '  I  should  be  as  bad  as 
you,  if  I  could  passively  sit  to  hear  you  abuse 
women.     You  know  that  he  who  listens  : — 

Qui  non  defendit,  alio  culpante  ;  solutos 
Qui  captat  risus  hominum,  famamque  dicacis ; 
Fingere  qui  non  visa  potest ;  commissa  tacere 
Qui  nequit ;  hie  niger  est; — * 

*  Hor.  I.  Sat.  IV.— 81. 


HARMONY    AND  DISCORD.  145 

^  No  !  I  will  try,  at  least,  to  revenge  the  cause  of 
women.'* 

'  You  ought  to  be  in  too  '  heavenly''  a  frame 
of  mind,  after  that  '  heavenly'  conversation,  to 
harbour  thoughts  of  revenge,** — said  Mr.  Heath- 
cote,  with  something  very  like  a  sneer. 

'  It  is  not  wonderful  our  conversation  should 
have  been  heavenly,'  I  observed,  '  considering  we 
are  all  of  us  so  much  nearer  heaven  than  we 
ever  were  before."* 

'  Or  ever  wish  to  be  again,'  said  he. 

Thinking  this  discussion  shut  the  good 
monks  out  of  the  conversation,  I  turned  to  the 
Prior,  and  while  talking  to  him,  Mr.  Lindsay 
left  the  room,  and  Mr.  Heathcote — who  does 
not  speak  French  fluently — soon  sauntered  out 
of  doors,  and  had  just  sauntered  in  again,  when 
Mr.  Lindsay  returned,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
much  scrawled  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  trium- 
phantly shook  at  Mr.  Heathcote — challenging 
him  to  answer  it  if  he  could.  He  then  read  the 
following  '  rhapsody,'  as  he  termed  it,  in  praise 
of  women,  which  I  copy  for  you,  as  I  know  you 
will  be  curious  to  see  it. 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  HARMONY    AND    DISCORD. 

LINES, 

IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  FOUL  ASPERSION  THAT  ALL  THE 
EVILS  WHICH  HAVE  DESOLATED  THE  WORLD  HAVE 
ARISEN    FROM    WOMAN. 

O  fairest  of  creation  !  last  and  best 

Of  all  God's  works !  creature,  in  whom  excels 

Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  form'd, 

Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable,  or  sweet !  Milton. 

—   ,.     We  should  be  brutes  without  you. 

Yes  !  brand  the  recreant  with  eternal  shame, 
Whose  perjur'^d  tongue  profan''d  blest  woman''s 

name ! 
Let  every  voice  on  earth  the  charge  repel, 
Breath''d  against  heaven  itself,  and  forg'd  in  hell ! 
Let  every  arm  be  raised  to  hurl  from  high 
The  caitiff  wretch  to  scorn  and  infamy. 
Base  as  the  senseless  clod  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Love's  finer  chords  his  savage  heart  ne''er  strung — 
Love's  heavenly  power  his  grovelling  soul  ne'er 

drew, 
To  honour,  faith,  and  virtue's  empire  true. — 
Be  it  for  ever  his  unpitied  lot 
To  be  by  woman  slighted  and  forgot ; 
Be  it  his  cheerless  isolated  fate 
To   meet,   through   life,    with   woman's    scorn 

and  hate, — 


HARMONY  AND    DISCORD.  147 

Unblest  to  live — unmourn'd  to  die,  alone. 
To  love  a  stranger — and  to  hope  unknown  ! 

Ye  sacred  Muses !  tune  the  heaven  strung  lyre 
To  lofty  strains  of  more  than  mortal  fire  ! 
O^er  all  the  earth  your  song  accordant  raise, 
And  let  the  witching  theme  be  woman's  praise  ! 
That  theme  so  dear  shall  find  e'er  long  it  part, 
A  chord  responsive  in  each  human  heart. 
Is  there  a  man  at  woman's  very  name 
Whose  bosom  does  not  glow  with  kindling  flame? 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  whate'er  thy  state  may  be. 
Still  gentle  woman  must  be  dear  to  thee  ; 
Had  she  not  nurs'd  thy  wants  and  still'd  thy  fears. 
What  cold  neglect  had  chill'd  thy  infant  years  ! 
How  joyless  and  unblest  thy  youth  would  prove 
If  unendear'd  by  her  devoted  love  ! 
What  could  the  cheerless  gloom  of  age  beguile 
Unbrightened  by  the  sunshine  of  her  smile  ? 
In  grief — where  would  thy  drooping  spirit  rest, 
If  unsustain'd  by  woman's  pitying  breast  ? 
How  dear  in  every  tie  of  social  life. 
As  mother,  daughter,  sister,  friend,  and  wife  ! 
'Tis  man  she  lives  to  bless,  or  dies  to  save. 
His  solace  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave ; 
L  2 


148  HARMONY  AND    DISCORD. 

In  him  she  Hves,  she  moves,  she  breathes  alone, 
For  him    she   loves — she    scorns    a   monarch's 

throne. 
She,  like  the  silver  crescent  of  the  night, 
From  man,  her  sun,  receives  her  milder  light. 
Shines  by  reflexion  in  his  brighter  rays. 
And  triumphs  in  his  proud  superior  blaze ; 
Constant  her  round  of  duty  to  perform. 
Dispels  the  gloom  and  laughs  away  the  storm ; 
Shines,  when  all  else  is  dark — sole  blessing  given. 
Shedding,  o'er  earth,  the  light  brought  down 

from  heaven. 

O  skill'd  by  nature,  with  endearing  art. 
To  bless  with  happiness  each  manly  heart ; 
Thy  angel  power  through  life  attends  us  still. 
To  heighten  every  good  and  soothe  each  ill ! 
O  thou  !  who  giv'st  our  morn  of  life  its  charm, 
Our  youth  its  transport  and  our  age  its  balm  ; 
Whose  'witching  power  the  proudest  can  controul. 
Whose  very  glance  speaks  to  the  inmost  soul  !— 
Woman  !  on  whom  our  hopes — our  fate  depend. 
Our  trust,  our  blessing,  comforter,  and  friend ; 
In  sickness  or  in  sorrow's  saddening  hour. 
The  heart  best  feels  thy  soft  consohng  power. 


HARMONY    AND  DISCORD.  149 

In  vain  for  wealth  or  power  from  thee  we  rove, 
Earth  has  no  gem  so  rich  as  woman's  love ; 
Without  thee  blessings  want  the  power  to  bless, 
The  world  would  be  a  barren  wilderness. 
Should  tyranny  inflict  the  drearest  doom. 
That  man  could  suffer  on  this  side  the  tomb, 
'Twould  be — condemrCd  to  revel  in  delight. 
Where  laughter  wing'd  the  day  and  sport  the  night ; 
Where    Fortune   heap'd    her   store    of    golden 

treasures. 
And  Fancy  pour'd  her  inexhaustless  pleasures  ; 
To  live — a  monarch  on  the  brightest  shore. 
Where  woman's  smile    should   bless  his  heart 

no  more. 
Shades  fresh  as  spring,  and  bowers  like  Eden  fair, 
Could  boast  no  charm  if  woman  were  not  there. 
For  man  there  blooms  beneath  the  upper  skies^ 
No  paradise,  unblest  by  woman's  eyes. 
Then  hail  chief  good  !  to  man  in  mercy  given. 
The  last  and  dearest  of  the  gifts  of  heaven  ! — 
Sent  down  to  soothe,  to  succour,  and  to  save. 
To  smooth  life's  dreary  pathway  to  the  grave, 
O  dearer  far  than  ought  on  earth  beside. 
Be  still  my  cherish'd  bliss — my  hope — my  pride .' 


150 


HARMONY    AND  DISCORD. 


:i 


Should  unpropitious  Fate  in  vengeance  shed 
Her  blackest  vials  oeV  my  suffering  head. 
And  far  from  me  each  earthly  hope  be  fled 
All  other  joys  my  heart  could  well  resign, 
And  smile  at  poverty  if  thou  wert  mine ; — 
No  grief  should  blast  my  unembitter'^d  lot, 
Wealth,  power,  and  splendour,  be  at  once  forgot; 
Safe  from  the  wreck  I'd  clasp  thy  angel  form. 
Secure  from  ill — nor  heed  the  raging  storm  ; 
And  bending  low  to  heaven**s  supreme  decree, 
Be  rich  in  all — ^possessing  only  thee  ! 

The  first  part  he  directed  against  Mr. 
Heathcote,  who  in  vain  attempted  to  interrupt 
him  with  '  I'll  indict  you  at  the  Old  Bailey — 
I  positively  will.'  His  threats  were  completely 
overpowered  by  the  powerful  energy  Avith  which 
Mr.  Lindsay  poured  forth  his  torrent  of  vitu- 
perative verse. — The  change  of  voice  and  ex- 
pression, when  turning  to  me — as  the  only 
woman  present,  he  commenced  the  theme  of 
women's  praise,  won  even  Mr.  Heathcote's 
attention.  When  it  was  ended,  however,  the 
latter  exclaimed — '  Aye,   aye,   that   ie;   all  very 


HARMONY   AND  DISCORD.  151 

fine — but  I  never  heard  such  scurrilous  stuff — 
such  vile  low-lived  rascally  abuse  as  you  have 
levelled  at  me — all  because  I  don't  think  women 
regular  angels.  I'll  indict  you  at  the  Old  Bailey. 
I'll  cast  you  in  c£^5000  damages  for  defamation. — 
Let  me  see,  'perjured,' — that  means  a  liar! 
'  Recreant' — that  means  a  coward  !  No,  I  must 
fight  you  for  that — the  Old  Bailey  wont  do.  And 
then  I  am  '  a  caitiff  wretch' — Am  I  ?  '  sprung 
from  a  clod  of  the  earth,' — Why  what  an  abo- 
minable falsehood  ! — when  you  know  we  count 
great,  great,  great,  great  grandfathers  in  a  direct 
line  almost  up  to  the  conquest  !' 

'And  I  maintain  you  are  sprung  from  a 
clod  of  earth — pray  what  are  all  those  great, 
great,  great,  great  grandfathers  of  your's  now,' 
said  Mr.  Lindsay. 

'  What  are  they  now  .?' 

*  Yes  !  what  are  they  turned  to  now  .^' — 
repeated  Mr.  Lindsay. 

'  Why — to  dust  I  suppose' — 

'  So  from  dust  you  came.' 

'  But  I  would  have  you  know  that  the  dust 
of  my  ancestors  is  very  honourable  dust — very 
res'J)ectable,  gcntleman-likc  sort  of  dust.' 


15£  HARMONY    AND  DISCORD. 

'  And  I  would  have  you  know  that  a  clod  of 
the  earth  is  very  respectable  dust — ^highly  re- 
spectable gentleman-like  sort  of  dust — and  that 
the  said  clod  is  of  full  as  high  antiquity  as  any 
of  your  great  grandfathers."* 


Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turn'd  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole — to  keep  the  wind  away — 
O  that  that  earth  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  to  guard  the  winter's  flaw. 


'  So  that  you  acknowledge  you  are  sprung  from 
nothing  but  dust— nothing  but  a  vile  clod  of 
earth  after  all.' 

'  I  wish  my  old  ancestors  heard  you !  How- 
ever, I  will  leave  them  to  settle  with  you  for  that 
— ^their  ghosts  may  torment  you  for  it — its  no 
particular  affair  of  mine.  But  I'll  indict  you — 
I  am  determined  I  will — I'll  cast  you  in  £5000 
damages  for  defamation.' 

'  Nay,'  exclaimed  Mr.  Lindsay,  '  I'll  cast 
you  in  damages  for  defamation  before  any  court 
in  Christendom — defamation  against  the  best 
and  fairest  of  God's  creatures.' 


HARMONY    AND  DISCORD.  153 

'  I  said  nothing  against  the  '  creatures'  (as 
you  call  them, — observe  I  never  called  them  by 
such  names) — I  only  said  what  is  perfectly  true, 
that  those  'creatures'  were  at  the  bottom  of  all 
the  mischief  that  has  ever  been  in  the  world — 
and  I'll  prove  it.  Was  not  Paradise  lost  by  a 
woman  ? — Was  not  Troy  lost  by  a  woman  ? — 
Was  not  Rome  lost  by  a  woman  ? — Was  not' — 

'  Hold  your  slanderous  tongue  Heathcote  ! 
— You  are  hke  those  reptiles  that  choose  the 
fairest  flowers,  to  leave  their  venom  upon. — 
None  but  cowards  abuse  women.' 

'  Reptiles  ! — cowards  ! — nay  then  I  must 
have  satisfaction — nothing  but  cold  iron  can 
settle  that.' 

'  Then,'  said  I,  taking  up  the  poker  and 
tongs,  which  in  this  polar  region,  though  near 
the  chimney,  were  as  cold  as  ice,  'here  is  cold 
iron  ready  for  you — fight  it  out  by  all  means, 
directly.'  They  both  laughed,  but  Mr.  Heath- 
cote said,  '  No,  no  !  bullets,  bullets  !  we  must 
have  bullets.' 

'  Then  suppose  you  go  out  with  each  a 
monk  for  a  second,    you   will  have   plenty   of 


154  HARMONY    AND  DISCORD. 

snow  balls  for  bullets,  and  there  are  air  guns 
in  abundance.'' 

'  No !  on  second  thoughts,  he  does  not 
deserve  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman,  after 
such  bad  language; — ^besides  I  should  get 
nothing  by  it,  except  getting  my  brains  blown 
out,  for  he  is  a  terrible  shot.  But  at  least  he 
might  have  used  the  language  of  a  gentleman. — 
Why  do  you  really  pretend  to  call  that  a 
lampoon  T 

'  No,  no !  you  were  much  beneath  a  lampoon, 
nothing  but  sheer  abuse  was  fit  for  you;  to  waste 
wit  upon  you,  would  be  to  throw  pearls  before — 
you  know  what,  Heathcote.' 

'  Go  on,  go  on  !  but  if  I  am  not  up  with 
you  for  all  this,  I' — 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  Prior,  who 
asked  us  if  we  should  like  '  to  take  a  walk  into 
Italy,""  which,  though  it  sounded  like  a  very 
tremendous  undertaking,  was  accomplished  in  a 
few  minutes  by  following  a  path  which  he  had 
caused  to  be  made  through  the  fresh  fallen 
snow  for  my  accommodation,  till  we  reached 
what  he  informed  uy  was  Italian  groiLud.     Thus 


HARMONY   AND   DISCORD.  155 

for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  found  ourselves 
in  Italy,  and  surrounded  with  deep  snow,  in  the 
middle  of  July.  On  all  sides  of  us  we  beheld 
snow — nothing  but  snow  ; — mountains  of  snow 
and  ice — excepting  where  the  naked  summits  of 
perpendicular  rocks  reared  their  dark  heads 
amidst  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  scene. 
The  site  of  a  small  reputed  Temple  of  Jupiter 
was  pointed  out  to  us,  and  the  Prior  informed 
us  that  the  ancient  Celtic  natives  of  this  neigh- 
bourhood used  to  worship  the  deity  of  the 
mountain,  under  the  name  of  the  God  Pen,  and 
the  image  of  a  handsome  young  man  : — that  the 
Romans  transformed  this  gothic  divinity  into 
Jupiter  Penninus,  from  whence  the  name  of 
the  Pennine  Alps.  The  name  of  '  Pen"*  for 
mountain  is  still  universal  in  Wales,  Ireland, 
Cornwall — wherever  the  Celtic  language  main- 
tained its  ground.  In  Scotland,  'Pen'  has 
generally  been  modified  to  Ben — as  Ben  Nevis — 
Ben  Lomond,  &c.  He  assured  us  that  the 
little  Temple  and  Statue  of  Jupiter  Penninus 
were  not  destroyed  until  St.  Bernard,  in  the 
tenth  century,  fultiUcd  his  mission  of  preaching 


156  HARMONY  AND  DISCORD. 

forty  years  among  the  rude  mountaineers,  who 
were  still  idolaters  when  he  converted  them  to 
Christianity,  and  levelled  every  trace  of  pagan 
worship  with  the  dust.  We  took  up  a  piece  of 
a  Roman  brick,  said  to  have  belonged  to  the 
Temple,  and  admired  its  freshness  and  preserva- 
tion. But  what  is  the  antiquity  of  the  works 
of  man,  compared  with  that  of  the  works  of 
nature ;  of  those  mountains  of  eternal  ice  which 
rose  around  us,  and  which  had  accumulated — 

unchanged  — untrodden — undiminished since 

the  deluge !  We  walked  to  the  little  frozen 
lake,  embosomed  in  rocks,  which  was  one  sheet 
of  ice.  We  looked  at  the  little  spot  the  Monks 
call  a  garden,  now  covered  deep  with  snow. 
We  visited  the  dogs  who  sleep  beneath  the  same 
roof  as  their  masters,  and  explored  all  the 
curiosities  of  St.  Bernard.  Lastly,  in  an  evil 
hour,  we  went  to  visit  the  Charnel  House,  a 
small  building,  with  iron  grated  windows, 
within  whose  walls  repose  the  uninterred  bodies 
of  the  poor  wanderers  who  have  perished  in  the 
storms  of  those  terrific  regions.  Earth  does  not 
cover,  fire  does  not  consume,   water  does  not 


HARMONY    AND  DISCORD.  157 

engulph  their  stiff  and  pallid  corpses.  Years 
pass  over  them  in  vain. — Time  here  loses  his 
power  to  corrupt  and  destroy. — ^^The  intensity  of 
the  frost  preserves  the  rigid  hmbs  and  ghastly 
countenances  of  these  unintombed  corpses,  un- 
changed as  when  the  icy  hand  of  death  first 
congealed  them — ^and  so  far  as  human  power 
can  see,  their  mortal  remains  may  never  taste  of 
dissolution  until  'the  earth  and  all  that  it 
inherits,'  shall  pass  away. 

Mr.  Lindsay  and  myself  went  into  this 
receptacle  of  the  dead,  and  having  gazed  for  a 
few  minutes  at  its  ghastly  tenants,  were  turning 
to  leave  it,  when  the  massive  door  was  flung  to 
in  our  faces,  and  the  rusty  key  harshly  grated 
as  it  v/as  hastily  turned  in  the  lock.  Mr. 
Heathcote's  face,  looking  at  us  through  the  iron 
bars  of  the  window  the  next  moment,  explained 
the  cause.  I  implored  to  be  let  out,  remon- 
strating that,  however  justly  Mr.  Lindsay  might 
deserve  incarceration,  I  had  done  nothing  to 
merit  such  a  penance,  and  that  it  was  unjus- 
tifiable to  punish  the  innocent  for  the  sins  of  the 
guilty. 


158  HARMONY   AND    DISCORD. 

'  It  all  comes  of  keeping  bad  company, 
Miss  St.  Clair.  Let  it  be  a  warning  to  you  to 
chuse  your  associates  better.  I  can't  let  you  out 
and  keep  him  in — and  I  must  be  revenged 
upon  him."* 

'  And  dost  thou  really  suppose,  thou  igno- 
ramus in  revenge,'  said  Mr.  Lindsay ;  '  thou 
most  bungling  and  obtuse  blockhead !  that  it 
can  be  any  punishment  to  me  to  be  shut  np  any 
where  with  such  a  companion  ?' 

*  I  should  think  it  a  punishment,  past  all 
endurance,  I  know,  to  be  locked  up  in  that  cold 
hole — with — with — an  angel  for  a  companion, 
Miss  St.  Clair.' 

'  But  we  shall  be  angels  in  good  earnest ;' 
I  expostulated.  <  We  shall  be  frozen  to  death. 
I  am  benumbed  already.  The  frost  has  taken 
hold  of  me — mortification  will  seize  me.' 

'  I  have  no  doubt  of  that,'  exclaimed  Mr. 
Heathcote,  laughing ;  *  I  meant  you  should  be 
mortified.' 

'  Seriously,  you  don't  mean  to  leave  us  here 
to  perish.  In  half  an  hour's  time  we  shall  be  in 
a  state  of  mortification,'  I  said. 


HARMONY  AND    DISCORD.  159 

'  In  less,  I  should  think  ;'  said  Mr,  Heath- 
cote,  laughing  as  he  left  the  window — '  your 
mortification  must  be  already  begun."* 

'  Recollect — ^you  will  have  our  lives  to 
answer  for — you  will  find  this  no  joke.  Only 
try  the  intensity  of  the  cold  for  a  single  moment 
yourself,  and  you  will  be  convinced  we  shall  very 
soon  be  frozen  to  death,'  I  exclaimed,  wishing 
to  frighten  him,  and  perceiving  he  wavered, 
although  he  still  sauntered  away  from  the  grated 
window. 

Mr.  Lindsay  did  his  best  to  console  me — and 
keep  me  from  the  cold. — '  A  little  patience,  and 
we  must  be  liberated,'  I  said.  '  Even  if  Mr. 
Heathcote  does  not  feel  ashamed  of  his  silly 
schoolboy  frolic,  the  old  monks  are  sure  to  come 
in  pursuit  of  us — and  besides.  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland  will  certainly  soon  arrive.' 

'  In  the  mean  time  I  owe  him  a  pleasure  I 
little  expected  !' — said  Mr.  Lindsay. 

'  Little  did  either  of  us  expect,  I  dare  say, 
to  be  so  soon  consigned  to  a  charnel  house,' 
— I  said,  laughing. 

'  But  what  a  scene  is  this  for  you  I — and 
what  a  scene  to  contemplate  !     What  a  contrast 


160  HARMONY  AND    DISCORD. 

between  you — glowing  with  animation  and  life — 
and  those  stiff,  cadaverous,  horrible  spectacles  of 
death  f 

And  yet  '  to  this  complexion  we  must 
come  at  last,**  I  said,  smiling. 

'  Impossible  !  I  could  fancy  you  cold,  pale, 
stretched  in  death — ^inanimate  as  marble — ^but 
never  thus  1 

Never  can  death's  effacing  fingers, 
Sweep  the  soft,  lines  where  beauty  lingers; 
So  fair,  so  cahn,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first  last  look  by  death  revealed ; 

'  I  can  fancy  you  beautiful  in  death.' 

'  You  are  very  obliging,'  I  replied,  laughing 
— '  but  I  have  no  fancy  to  be  beautiful  in  that 
way — ^however  we  are  certainly  near  enough  to 
death  now,  if  that  would  tend  to  make  us  more 
beautiful.' 

Our  conversation  then  turned  upon  beauty — 
and  theories  of  beauty, — and  upon  Taste;  but  all 
we  said  on  those  inexhaustible  subjects  I  have  not 
patience  to  tell  you — neither  do  I  recollect  any 
thing  being  said  particularly  worth  mentioning. 
In  the  middle  of  it,  and  while  Mr.  Lindsay  was 
most  eloquently  supporting  and  illustrating  an 


HARMONY  AND    DISCORD.  161 

ingenious  theory  he  had  advanced,  on  Taste 
being  the  latest  and  highest  acquirement  of 
mind,  and  not  an  endowment  of  nature — I  saw, 
to  my  great  joy,  Mr.  Heathcote  approaching. 

*  Hope  nothing  from  him,'  said  Mr.  Lind- 
say— '  I  know  him  well. — If  he  once  determines 
upon  any  thing,  nothing  can  change  his  purpose. 
Even  if  he  was  ashamed  of  it  he  would  still 
persevere  in  it.  He  would  die,  sooner  than 
own  he  had  been  in  the  wrong.' 

'  He  seems  to  be  one  of  the  many  who 
could  pardon  a  serious  injury,  sooner  than  a 
trifling  degree  of  ridicule,  I  observed.' 

'  Yes,  his  great  horror  is  being  laughed  at, 
imposed  on,  or  duped.' 

'  Then  let  us  dupe  him  !'  I  exclaimed.  '  I 
should  enjoy  taking  him  in, — and  getting 
ourselves  out.  Let  us  make  him  believe  we  are 
dying  of  cold — freezing.' 

'  But  how .?'  said  Mr.  Lindsay,  <  it  will 
be  vain  to  tell  him  so.' 

'  We  must  not  speak  a  word,  we  must  act 
it,'  I  said,  sitting  down  on  the  ground  where 
Mr.  Heathcote  could  just  see  me  through  the 

VOL.  I.  M 


162 


HARMONY  AND   DISCORD* 


grate,  my  head  leaning  against  my  hands  and 
knees,  my  body  stiff  and  seemingly  insensible. 

'  Admirable  ! — you  seem  perfectly  frozen  ; 
But  what  must  I  do  ?'  exclaimed  Mr.  Lindsay, 
trying  to  imitate  my  position,  but  most 
unsuccessfully.     '  He  will  find  me  out  directly."* 

'  Suppose  you  go  into  this  corner,  where  he 
can  not  exactly  see  you,  but  where  he  will 
naturally  suppose  you  to  be  lying — I  dare  say 
you  will  not  like  to  enact  a  dying  scene.  There, 
that  will  do.    Hush  !  not  a  word  !  he  is  just  here.' 

He  looked  anxiously  in — spoke — tried  to 
laugh — called  loudly  upon  us  by  our  names — 
entreated  us  to  answer  ; — but  all  in  vain.  Mrs 
Siddons,  as  Hermione,  was  unquestionably  more 
graceful,  but  could  not  be  more  immoveable, 
more  completely  like  a  statue  of  stone  than  I  was. 

'  Good  God  Almighty  I  they  are  frozen  ! — 
insensible  ! — I  have  killed  them.  Lord  !  Lord ! 
what  a  fool  I  was  !  Lindsay  I  speak,  I  say  ! — 
Speak,  man,  for  God"'s  sake ! — come  out,  can't 
ye  !'  he  exclaimed,  as  he  shook,  and  rattled,  and 
bungled  at  the  lock.  The  rusty  key  snapped 
in   it.     *  Confound    the    key  !' — he    exclaimed. 


HARMONY   AND   DISCORD.  163 

*  Confound  your  stupidity !'  burst  from  Mr.  Lind- 
say,— or  would  have  done,  had  I  not  instinctively 
laid  my  hand  upon  his  mouth  to  keep  him  silent. 
To  my  inexpressible  amazement  and  confusion, 
he  rapturously  held  it  there  with  both  his  hands, 
covering  it  with  kisses.  I  never  remember  to 
have  felt  so  completely  overwhelmed  and  agi- 
tated. 1  could  not  speak — I  trembled  from 
head  to  foot.  At  length,  having  by  a  strong 
effort  disengaged  myself  from  him,  I  actually 
burst  into  tears.  You  know  I  do  not  easily 
weep,  but  I  must  have  been  suffocated  with  the 
contending  emotions  that  throbbed  in  my  bosom, 
had  they  not  found  this  relief.  He  bent  over 
me — he  soothed  me — ^lie  supported  me — (I  could 
not  prevent  him) — but  it  was  with  a  delicacy 
and  a  respectful  tenderness  that  left  me  no  room 
for  resentment  or  complaint.  He  execrated 
himself  for  having  called  forth  my  tears — he 
implored  my  forgiveness  again  and  again — ^he 
vowed  he  could  not  bear  to  exist  under  my 
displeasure. 

'  Nay  do  not  turn  from  me — let  me  support 
you! — Fear  nothing  from  me,  dearest  Miss  St. 
M  2 


164 


HARMONY  AND  DISCORD. 


Clair.  By  heavens  !  I  would  die  ten  thousand 
deaths  sooner  than  violate,  for  a  single  moment, 
the  deep,  the  devoted  respect,  I  feel  for  you. 
O  Miss  St.  Clair !  words  cannot  express  the 
admiration — the  esteem — the  ardent  respect 
with  which  my  whole  soul  is  penetrated  for  you. 
Speak  to  me  ! — look  at  me  once  more  ! — O  do 
not  turn  so  disdainfully  away  from  me !  Say 
you  will  forgive  me  !  Indeed  it  was  the  place — 
the  moment — the  suddenness  of — of — O  Miss  St. 
Clair  !  I  must  have  been  more  or  less  than  man 
to  have  felt  that  hand  upon  my  lips,  and  not 
have  held  it  there  with  ten  thousand  kisses ! 
O  you  cannot  conceive  the  tide  of  feelings'* — 

'  I  cannot — I  will  not  listen  to  this,'  I 
exclaimed,  recovering  myself  and  proudly  dis- 
engaging myself  from  him.  '  Mr.  Lindsay,  you 
forget  yourself  V 

I  will  not — I  would  not  for  ten  thousand 
worlds  offend  you,"*  he  replied — '  Believe  that 
it  was  unpremeditated — that  it  arose  from  the 
irresistible  impulse  of  the  moment.  Tell  me 
only  you  believe  me — tell  me  you  forgive  me." — 

I  need  not  dwell  longer  on  this  scene,  my 
dear  Georgiana ;   and  indeed  I  cannot  relate  it 


HARMONY    AND   DISCORD.  165 

even  to  you,  without  feeling  covered  with  the 
most  painful  confusion  at  the  recollection  of  it ; 
but  from  you  I  have  promised  to  conceal  nothing, 
and  minutely  to  relate  every  little  circumstance 
that  concerns  me ;  and  I  must  not  break  that 
promise,  wha^ver  embarrassment  I  may  feel  in 
keeping  it.  1  have  not,  however,  kept  all  my 
promises  so  well,  I  believe,  for  I  promised  Mr. 
Lindsay  to  forgive  him — and  to  forget  it ; — and 
that  I  find  I  cannot  so  easily  do. 

The  appearance  of  Mr.  Heathcote,  his 
clothes  all  white  with  the  falls  among  the  snow 
he  had  got  in  his  haste,  followed  by  two  of  the 
Monks — their  black  robes  flying  in  the  wind, 
armed  with  all  sorts  of  restoratives,  and  hurrying 
down  from  the  convent, — to  my  unspeakable 
relief,  put  an  end  to  our  tete  a  tete  and  our  impri- 
sonment. Almost  at  the  same  moment.  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Cleveland,  and  Mademoiselle  Dele- 
mont,  on  their  mules  coming  up  to  the  convent, 
arrived  just  in  time  to  witness  our  liberation. 

'  Why  what  is  all  this  .?"*  exclaimed  Colonel 
Cleveland,  '  You  saw  them  frozen  to  death !  quite 
insensible  ! — like  marble  you  say  ! — I  must  say 
I  never  saw  any  thing  less  like  marble  in  my 


166 


HARMONY   AND    DISCORD. 


life.  Cheeks  like  the  rose  ! — eyes  full  of  fire  ! — 
I  don^t  think  they  seem  very  insensible.  There 
seems  to  have  been  no  freezing  here.  But  how 
the  deuce  did  they  get  in — and  why  did  not 
they  get  out?' 

The  matter  was  now  explained,  and  Mr.  Heath- 
cote  looked  quite  as  silly  as  could  be  desired, 
the  laugh  being  completely  turned  against  him. 
But  his  meeting  with  Colonel  Cleveland,  who 
proved  to  be  an  old  acquaintance  of  his,  served 
to  relieve  him  from  the  intolerable  embarrass- 
ment of  being  laughed  at.  After  taking  a  short 
rest  and  some  refreshment,  the  last  arrived 
party,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Heathcote  and  Mr. 
Lindsay,  as  well  as  myself,  took  leave  of  the 
good  Monks,  and  left  St.  Bernard;  having  first 
deposited  a  very  ample  mark  of  our  gratitude 
for  their  kindness  and  hospitality,  in  the  money 
box  of  the  convent. 

The  forenoon  was  now  so  far  advanced, 
that  it  seemed  probable  we  shoidd  be  again 
benighted  before  reaching  Martigni ;  but  as 
we  were  going  from  the  region  of  tempests,  down 
to  sheltered  vallies  and  genial  climates,  this 
signified  little;  and  as  Colonel   Cleveland  had 


HAUMONY  AND    DISCORD. 


167 


sent  for  Chars  a  banc  to  meet  us  about  half 
way,  where  the  road  becomes  practicable  for 
these  carriages,  our  journey  promised  to  be 
much  more  expeditious  and  prosperous  than 
that  of  yesterday.  We  stopped  only  on  the 
way  once  for  half  an  hour,  which  we  employed 
in  eating  strawberries  and  cream,  while  the 
Chars  were  getting  ready.  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland  took  Mr.  Heathcote  into  theirs,  while 
Mr.  Lindsay  escorted  Mademoiselle  Delemont 
and  me  in  the  other ;  and  so  fast  did  we  get  on, 
that  we  reached  Martigni  just  in  the  last  fading 
twilight  of  a  beautiful  summer  evening. 

You  will  probably  long  since  have  discovered 
that  these  were  the  two  English  gentlemen  who  so 
civilly  turned  me  out  of  my  room.  It  proved, 
however,  that  they  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
the  transaction,  for  they  had  sent  on  one  of  their 
guides  to  bespeak  beds  at  the  inn,  and  as  they 
.were  shown  into  my  relinquished  apartment  the 
very  moment  they  arrived,  without  knowing  any 
thing  of  the  previous  disturbance  the  old  hostess 
had  raised,  to  ensure  their  accommodation,  or 
rather  her  own  profit — they  were  utterly  uncon- 


168 


HARMONY   AND    DISCORD. 


scious  of  having  inconvenienced  or  displaced 
any  one.  Luckily  the  adventures  of  the 
expedition  to  St.  Bernard,  and  the  delight  of 
meeting  unexpectedly  an  old  friend  in  Mr. 
Heathcote,  and  of  talking  over  old  English 
friends  and  adventures,  completely  drove  from 
Colonel  Cleveland's  mind  the  recollection  of  the 
quarrel  about  the  bed  room.  I  saw,  from  the 
enquiries  they  made,  that  both  Mr.  Heathcote 
and  Mr.  Lindsay  concluded  that  Mademoiselle 
Delemont  was  the  lady  who  had  slept  in  the 
room  adjoining  them,  and  who  had  desired  them 
in  French  to  speak  lower : — ^but  I  had  cautioned 
her  not  to  mention  that  I  slept  with  her;  and 
as  she  told  them  *  she  heard  them  only  make 
a  great  talking,  but  could  not  hear  the  words,"* 
and  as  they  found  she  understood  English  very 
imperfectly,  they  seemed  quite  satisfied  that 
their  conversation  had  not  been  overheard. 

Who  should  we  find  at  Martigni  but  poor 
Lord  Lumbercourt !  He  had  arrived  two  days 
ago,  and  finding  we  had  set  off  on  this  excursion, 
he  had  followed  us  in  his  comfortable  chariot, 
fully  but  vainly  expecting  to  overtake  us, — and 


HARMONY   ANU  DISCORD. 


169 


here  he  had  spent  the  whole  of  yesterday  alone, 
in  this  dreary  comfortless  inn — execrating  Swiss 

inns — Swiss   roads — Swiss    mountains Swiss 

drivers — Swiss  horses — or  rather  want  of  horses 
— and  every  thing  Swiss.* 

It  appears  that  Mr.  Lindsay  is  the  nearest 
relation  Lord  Lunibercourt  has  in  the  world. 
His  father's  eldest  sister  married  Lord  Lumber- 
courfs  father,  a  man  much  older  than  herself, 
and  his  Lordship  was  their  only  child ;  so  that 
Mr.  Lindsay  is  his  first  cousin.  I  cannot  say, 
however,  that  the  Peer  seemed  much  overjoyed 
at  this  unexpected  meeting. 

Great  was  his  Lordship'*s  dismay  when  he 
found  that  we  were  going  to-morrow  morning, 
again  to  mount  our  mules,  to  cross  the  Tete 
Noire,  and  go  through  all  the  Alpine   perils, 


*  No  post  horses  are  kept  in  Switzerland.  Travellers 
are  obliged  to  hire  them  en  voiturier^  by  the  day's  journey, 
and  send  them  back — which  makes  travelUng  rather  slow, 
(though  it  never  can  be  tedious  to  the  lovers  of  fine  scenery,) 
through  those  few  parts  of  this  romantic  country  in  which 
it  might  be  practicable  to  travel  Math  English  expedition — 
and  in  English  carriages. 


170  HARMONY   AND   DISCORD. 

and  passes,  and  hardships  of  an  excursion  to 
Chamouni.  As  it  was  equally  impossible  to 
transport  either  himself  or  his  chariot,  or  even 
*  Gregory' — those  three  inseparable  machines — 
across  the  sublime  precipices  and  snow  covered 
pinnacles  which  divide  us  from  Chamouni,  and 
which  are  accessible  only  to  the  footing  of 
the  cautious  mule,  or  the  active  pedestrian 
— ^it  followed  that  his  Lordship  had  no  other 
alternative  than  to  return  back  the  road  he 
came,  or  proceed  forwards  up  the  Valais  to 
the  Simplon,  there  being  no  other  carriage  road 
whatever.  The  chance  of  a  heavy  rain,  which 
would,  of  course,  spoil  our  Chamouni  party 
and  enjoyment — alone  seemed  to  give  him  any 
satisfaction — and  he  caught  at  every  indication 
of  it,  and  watched  the  moon  and  the  clouds — 
(which  I  dare  say  he  hardly  ever  contemplated  in 
his  life  before) — with  most  perceptible  anxiety  that 
the  evil  might  happen  which  we  were  dreading. 
Mr.  Lindsay,  who  with  Mr.  Heathcote  had 
come  from  Geneva  through  Chamouni  to  Mar- 
tigni,  determined  to  return  with  us,  and  see  the 
sublime  scenery  of  this  astonishfng  valley  again  ; 


HARMONY    AND    DISCORD.  171 

being  quite  convinced,  he  said,  that  it  would 
have  a  totally  different  effect  when  viewed, 
travelling  in  the  opposite  direction  : — and  as  he 
and  his  friend  had  crossed  the  Col  de  Balme, 
and  we  meant  to  cross  the  Tete  Noire,  the 
descent  into  the  valley  would,  at  all  events,  be 
quite  new  to  him.  Mr.  Heathcote  having  once 
declared  '  that  for  his  part  he  would  not  go^ — 
was  immoveable  in  his  resolution  ; — and  all  the 
arguments  of  Mr.  Lindsay  and  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland,  and  all  the  sweet  engaging  smiles  of 
Mademoiselle  Delemont,  were  lavished  upon  him 
in  vain.  '  Upon  the  impassive  ice  the  light- 
nings played."  Colonel  Cleveland  seemed  much 
disappointed  by  his  determined  refusal,  and 
Mr.  Lindsay  was  evidently  vexed — '  You  think, 
Heathcote,'  he  said,  '  that  to  be  obstinate  must 
be  wise — to  be  obliging  must  be  weak — and  to 
be  good  humoured  must  be  foolish.  It  is  well 
that  you  are  so  well  satisfied  with  yourself — we 
must  try  to  be  as  well  satisfied  without  you." 


172  HARMONY   AND    DISCORD. 

LETTER  IX. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

Belle  Vite,  near  Lausanne, 
July  dlst,  1816. 

In  spite  of  Lord  Lumber  court's  malicious 
wishes,  the  morning  arose  bright  and  beau- 
tiful— ^but  alas  !  even  when  the  cup  of  pleasure 
seemed  most  within  our  reach,  it  was  dashed 
from  our  lips — and  my  cup  of  tea  had  well 
nigh  fallen  along  with  it,  in  my  consterna- 
tion,— when,  as  the  more  active  members  of 
our  party  were  sitting  at  breakfast.  Colonel 
Cleveland  entered  with  an  overclouded  counte- 
nance, and  announced  the  dismal  tidings  that 
Mrs.  Cleveland  was  so  stiff,  so  bruised,  and  so 
completely  '  knocked  up"*  with  the  fatigues  of 
the  two  preceding  days,  that  she  was  wholly 
unable  to  undertake  another  mule  expedition. 
The  undisguised  exultation  of  Mr.  Heathcote, 
the  ill-repressed  satisfaction  of  Lord  Lumber- 
court,  mingled  with  bungling  attempts  to  '  regret 


HARMONY   AND   DISCORD.  173 

the  pleasure  we  had  lost' — and  to  be  '  very  sorry 
for  the  cause"* — together  with  the  disappointment 
of  the  rest  of  the  party,  you  may  easily  imagine. 

When  Mrs.  Cleveland  appeared,  she  was 
so  good-naturedly  sorry  to  be  the  cause  of  this 
disappointment,  that  she  actually  used  all  her 
powers  of  persuasion,  to  induce  me  to  go  to 
Chamouni  with  Mademoiselle  Delemont,  escorted 
by  Mr.  Lindsay,  both  of  whom  seconded  her 
in  treaties  with  all  their  soul  and  all  their  strength, 
— but  they  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the  winds. 
Not  the  inexpressible  and  longing  desire  I  felt 
to  visit  Chamouni,  nor  any  other  temptation  of 
pleasure  could  have  induced  me  to  have  taken 
such  a  step. 

'  It  would  not  be  the  thing,  certainly — it 
would  be  quite  out  of  the  question  in  England,' 
repeated  Mrs.  Cleveland,  '  but  here  it  would  be 
quite  different.  Nobody  would  think  it  odd — 
nobody  would  think  it  improper — indeed,  nobody 
at  Chamouni  would  ever  know  Mr.  Lindsay  was 
not  your  brother."* 

'  Or  your  husband,'  said  Mr.  Heathcote. 

The  blushes  that  covered  my  cheeks  at 
this  speech   I   would  have  given   the  world  to 


174  HARMONY    AND   DISCORD. 

have  repressed,  had  it  been  possible — that  he 
might  not  have  had  the  triumph  of  having 
caused  them.  How  completely  are  we  at  the 
mercy  of  men,  even  of  those  who  are  perfectly 
indifferent  or  contemptible  to  us  !  How  truly 
are  we  dependent  beings !  Something  Mr. 
Lindsay  said,  I  did  not  distinctly  hear  what, 
made  Mr.  Heathcote,  in  turn,  blush  crimson, — 
but,  as  I  shut  the  door,  I  heard  Mr.  Lindsay 
say,  '  I  would  not  have  stood  that  look  for  a 
thousand  pounds.' 

'But  I  can  stand  many  things  that  you 
cannot,  I  flatter  myself,'  said  Mr.  Heathcote. 

'  You  do  flatter  yourself, — and  a  man  had 
better  flatter  any  body  else  than  himself — 
retorted  Mr.  Lindsay. 

Their  recrimination  was  cut  short  by  the 
bustle  of  departure.  Mrs.  Cleveland,  in  consi- 
deration of  her  fatigues,  occupied  the  unenvied 
seat  in  Lord  Lumbercourt's  carriage,  which  I 
had  formerly  enjoyed.  Colonel  Cleveland  and 
Mr.  Heathcote  took  possession  of  one  char ;  and 
Mademoiselle  Delemont,  Mr.  Lindsay,  and 
myself,  the  other. 


HARMONY   AND    DISCORD.  175 

Our  journey  back,  by  the  very  same  road 
we  had  come,  presented,  of  course,  nothing  new 
for  remark  or  description ;  except  that — ^in 
examining  the  tower  of  St.  Tryphon,  near  Bex, 
built  by  the  Romans,  we  employed  some  of  the 
leisure  hours  which  Swiss  travelling  affords — 
whether  from  the  pure  love  of  antiquarian 
research,  or  the  want  of  something  else  to  do,  I 
will  not  say  ; — and  moreover,  that  we  visited 
the  Chateau  de  Roche,  the  residence  of  the 
celebrated  Haller, — which,  but  for  the  remem- 
brance of  that  great  philosopher,  would  certainly 
ill  have  repaid  our  pains.  After  a  very  pleasant 
journey,  we  reached  home  to  dinner  the  second 
day,  without  any  adventure. 

Lord  Lumbercourt,  Mr.  Heathcote,  and 
Mr.  Lindsay  staid  a  few  days  with  us — that  is, 
they  slept  at  night  at  the  inn  at  Lausanne,  but 
lived  all  day  at  Belle  Viie — and  the  day  was 
never  long  enough  for  our  water  parties  on  the 
lake,  our  walks,  our  rides,  and  our  drives  to  the 
romantic  scenes,  and  the  magnificent  points  of 
view  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lausanne,  which 
are  indescribably  various  and  beautiful.     The 


176 


HARMONY   AND  DISCORD. 


view  from  the  signal  station  we  returned  to 
admire  again  and  again  with  renewed  dehght ; 
and  never,  at  sunset,  did  we  fail  to  turn  our  steps 
to  behold  that  glorious  prospect  from  the  terrace 
of  Lausanne,  high  above  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Leman  Lake — with  the  woods,  the  rocks,  and 
the  towering  summits  of  the  snow-white  Alps 
rising  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  catching  the 
last  glowing  changeful  hues  of  the  evening  sky — 
which  is  surely  unsurpassed  in  beauty  by  any 
other  scene  on  earth. 

Our  evenings  were  generally  spent  in 
music,  in  which  Mrs.  Cleveland  and  sometimes 
Mademoiselle  Delemont  assisted.  I  generally 
accompanied  them  or  myself  on  the  harp.  Mr. 
Lindsay  wrote  songs,  and  I  set  them  to  music 
and  sung  them. 

Day  after  day  did  Mr.  Heathcote  urge, 
complain,  and  insist  that  they  must,  without 
delay,  prosecute  their  tour  of  the  Grisons,  the 
Glaris,  the  Grimsel,  the  Gemmi,  and  I  know 

not  how  many  other  G ^'s,  and  that  he  could 

not,  and  would  not  wait  a  day  longer;  and 
reproached  Mr.  Lindsay  with  having  persuaded 


HARMONY   AND    DISCORD.  177 

him  to  come  from  England  to  take  this  tour 
with  him,  and  now  deserting  him  in  the  middle 
of  it.  '  You  promised  you  would  go  through 
the  whole  with  me — you  promised  we  should 
make  it  out  before  the  shooting  season  began,' 
he  repeated 

'He  knows  he  has  me  in  his  power,"  said 
Mr.  Lindsay,  '  and  like  another  Shylock,  he 
duns  me  incessantly  with  '  my  bond,  my 
bond  !"* — '  Well,  according  to  '  my  bond,'  I 
must  go.' 

And  accordingly  at  last  they  did  go. — And 
perhaps  it  was  as  well. 

Short  as  our  acquaintance  has  been  in 
duration,  we  certainly  know  each  other  better  by 
living  and  travelling  a  week  or  two  together 
from  morning  till  night,  than  we  could  have  done 
after  years  of  acquaintance  in  England ;  and 
had  this  incessant  intimacy  continued,  I  might 
perhaps  have  found  his  society  a  dangerous 
enjoyment,  for  he  is  possessed  of  very  uncommon 
talents  and  powers  of  pleasing — and  he  is  one  of 
the  very  few  young  men  I  know,  who  with  rank, 
fortune,  fashion,  and  great  personal  advantages, 

VOL.    I.  N 


178  HARMONY   AND   DISCORD. 

is  entirely  free  from  vanity,  and  is  not  intoxi- 
cated with  these  envied  distinctions.  He  estimates 
them  as  they  deserve,  but  he  has  nobler  qualities 
and  higher  obj  ects  of  ambition.  In  short,  he  is  so 
very  interesting  and  superior  a  character,  that 
though  I  cannot  honestly  pretend  that  I  am 
glad  he  is  gone,  I  will  honestly  own  to  you 
that  I  am  quite  convinced  it  is  better  for  me 
that  he  is : — for  Mr.  Lindsay,  while  }ie  avowedly 
seeks  my  friendship,  himself  feels  that  I  can 
never  be  more  to  him  than  a  friend ;  but  as 
friendship  with  young  men — more  especially 
such  a  yoyng  man — is  not  the  most  prudent  thing 
possible  for  a  young  woman — I  shall  take  care 
never  to  be  more  to  him  than  an  acquaintance. 
In  plain  English,  Georgiana,  Mr.  Lindsay  never 
will  marry  me.  You  may  trust  to  my  penetra- 
tion and  sincerity  on  this  point.  I  am  not, 
and  cannot  be  mistaken.  I  know  that  it  is 
true — and  you  knoAv  that  I  would  not  say  so  to 
you  if  it  were  not  true.  But  I  tell  you  so,  dear 
Georgiana,  at  once,  plainly,  in  order  that  you 
may  not  indulge  your  quick  fancy  with  building 
any  eastles  about  me  and  Mr.  Lindsay,  which  I 


HARMONY  AND    DISCORD.  179 

know  you  would  be  apt  to  do.  Such  being  the 
case,  though  you  will  acquit  me  of  the  weakness 
and  folly  of  falling  in  love  with  a  man  who«t  I 
know  has  no  thoughts  of  me — and  though   I 

have  too  much  pride — if  not  too  much  sense 

to  allow  my  heart  'unsought,  unwoo'd,  to  be 
won' — yet  I  might  perhaps  have  found  in  time, 
that  his  too  dehghtful  society  made  that  of 
others  distasteful.  A  person  accustomed  every 
day  to  Champagne,  would  find  small  beer  a 
very  vapid  beverage.  Therefore,  I  repeat,  it 
is  as  well  perhaps  for  me  that  he  is  gone. 
And  now  it  would  be  as  well  for  me,  perhaps, 
if  I  were  gone  too — to  bed — so  good  night, 
dear  Georgiana. 


N  2 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ENGLAND. 


God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town. 

COWPER. 

O  how  cans't  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 

Of  charms  which  nature  to  her  votary  yields, 

The  warbling  woodland — the  resounding  shore — 

The  pomp  of  groves  and  garniture  of  fields ; 

AU  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  yields, 

And  aU  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even ; 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields. 

And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, — 

O  how  can'st  thou  renounce  and  hope  to  be  forgiven ! 

Beat  TIE. 


Two  days  after  their  departure,  Colonel 
Cleveland  received  a  few  hasty  lines  from  Mr. 
Lindsay,  written  from  Geneva,  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  they  had  parted,  to  inform  him  that 
Mr.  Heathcote,  on  his  arrival  there,  had  found 


ENGLAND.  181 

a  letter  at  the  Poste  Restante,  announcing  the 
intelligence  that  his  father  had  been  seized  with 
a  paralytic  attack  at  Cheltenham,  and  was 
considered  by  his  physicians  to  be  in  great 
danger,  and  that  in  consequence  of  this  dis- 
tressing intelligence,  they  were  both  on  the 
point  of  setting  off  for  Paris  on  their  way  to 
England.  Accordingly  that  very  evening,  the 
two  friends  took  their  departure  as  fast  as  six 
horses  could  carry  them.  But  as  six  French 
horses,  on  French  roads,  are  by  no  means  equal 
in  speed  to  four  Enghsh  horses  on  Enghsh  roads, 
the  progress  of  the  travellers  by  no  means 
kept  pace  with  the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Heathcote — 
who  had  heartily  execrated  French  cattle — 
French  tackle — French  postillions — French — 
imposition^— and  French  ways  of  all  sorts — a 
thousand    and   a   thousand   times   before   they 

reached    Paris where     an     inevitable     delay 

respecting  passports  bid  fair  to  detain  him — 
execrating  every  thing  French — at  least  twenty- 
four  hours  longer.  But  here  we  must  leave  the 
two  travellers  for  the  present,  and  return  to  our 
friends  near  Lausanne. 


182  ENGLAND. 

'  So  they  are  gone  to  England,'  said  Colonel 
Cleveland,  folding  up  the  letter  which  he  had 
been  reading  aloud. 

'  Ah  !  they  are  gone  to  England,  so  we  shall 
see  no  more  of  them,''  exclaimed  Lord  Lumber- 
court,  with  evident  marks  of  undissembled 
satisfaction. 

'  Indeed  ! — shall  we  see  no  more  of  them  ?"* — 
said  Mrs.  Cleveland,   '  what  a  pity  V 

'  Vat  a  pity  tis  inteed  V — said  Mademoiselle 
Delemont — 'bot  I  tink  we  sail  see  som  more 
of  dem.' 

'  You  think  we  shall  !  But  you  don't 
understand,  my  dear  Mademoiselle  Delemont, 
that  they  are  gone  back  to  England,'  said  Mrs. 
Cleveland,  speaking  very  distinctly. 

'  Veil — ^bot  I  tink  dat  dey — no— dat  iss  von 
of  dem  will  com  agen.' 

'  Come  back  here  again — back  from  England  ! 
what  just  as  the  shooting  season  is  beginning  ? — 
when  they  will  be  just  in  time  for  the  moors  ?'' 
exclaimed  Colonel  Cleveland,  with  a  look  of 
amazement  at  such  a  proposition.  '  No,  that 
they  won't — I'll    answer   for   it !       No,    no  ! — 


ENGLAND.  183 

O  that  I  could  have  the  first  week  of  it  only  ! 
— Eh  Adeline  !  Don't  you  wish  you  were  back 
in  England — if  it  were  only  just  for  one  week  ?' 

'  No,  that  I  don't !  for  I  am  sure  it  would  be 
many  a  week  before  I  got  you  away  again.' 

'  I  believe  it  would —  I  believe  it  would, 
Adehne — for  you  know  after  partridge  shoot- 
ing and  pheasant  shooting,  hunting  would  be 
coming  on.' 

'  I  think,  Colonel  Cleveland,'  said  Caroline 
smiling,  '  you  may  say  with  the  poet, — 

England,  with  all  thy  sports,  I  love  thee  still, 
My  country.' 

'  Ay,  better  than  any  other  country,  a  million 
times  over.' 

'  And  you  love  the  country  for  the  sake  of 
country  sports — don't  you.^' 

'  To  be  sure  I  do  !' 

'  I  don't  believe  one  English  gentleman  out 
of  a  hundred,  would  ever  live  in  the  country  at 
all,  if  it  were  not  for  country  sports,'  said 
Caroline.  '  They  never  go  to  the  country,  if 
they  can  possibly  help  it,  till  shooting  is  about 
to  begin,  and  they  come  away  as  soon  as  ever 


184  ENGLAND. 

hunting  is  over.  They  would  never  go  at  all — 
the  country  would  be  deserted  by  the  fashionable 
world — like  the  country  in  France  or  Italy — if 
it  were  not  for  country  sports." 

'  But  the  ladies,  what  do  the  ladies  do  ? — 
They  dont  go  to  the  country  to  shoot  and  hunt,** 
said  Col.  Cleveland. 

'  O  where  the  gentlemen  are — there  will  be 
the  ladies  also,"  said  Caroline,  laughing — '  But 
the  attraction  of  shooting  and  hunting  is  the 
reason  why  the  English  turn  summer  into  winter, 
and  winter  into  summer,  a  proceeding  inexpres- 
sibly puzzling  to  unitiated  foreigners."* 

'  Because  foreigners  are  fools,  and  don't 
consider  our  climate,'  said  Colonel  Cleveland. 
'  Who  would  submit  to  be  pent  up  all  winter  in 
the  fogs  and  dullness  of  London,  where  one  never 
sees  the  sun  ?"* 

'  Not  I — I  dislike  London  in  winter  much — 
but  I  dislike  it  in  the  middle  of  summer  still 
more.  I  cannot  endure  to  be  immured  in  its 
smoke,  and  dust,  and  confinement,  during  the 
few  delicious  months  when  the  fields,  and  trees, 
and  flowers,  and  the  whole  delightful  face  of 
nature,  are  resplendent  in  freshness  and  beauty.' 


ENGLAND.  185 

'  So,  then  you  like  the  country  all  the  year 
round  !'  said  Mrs.  Cleveland.  *  And  yet  how 
often  have  you  made  me  laugh  with  your  pictures 
of  its  dullness — of  the  dullness  of  country 
visiting  for  instance  ?'' 

'  It  is  laughable — in  recollection,  at  least — ^for 
in  actual  experience  there  is  nothing  less  amusing 
in  the  world."" 

'  Why  I  thought  you  had  a  very  good  neigh- 
bourhood in  Westmoreland,  and  a  very  good 
society,  and  a  great  deal  of  visiting,' — said 
Colonel  Cleveland. 

'  So  we  have ; — far  too  good  a  neighbour- 
hood, and  far  too  much  visiting,'  said  Caroline. 
'  But  without  knowing  what  it  is,  you  can  never 
conceive  it.  Suppose  us  going  to  dine  at  some 
house  seven  or  eight  miles  off,  where  the  good 
primitive  people  keep  what  they  call  very  good 
hours — that  is,  waste  half  the  day  in  eating  and 
drinking — which  is  the  laudable  custom  of 
Westmoreland — for  they  are  unmerciful  enough 
to  ask  you  at  five  o'clock,  so  that  you  must  go  to 
dress  before  the  day  is  half  over,  in  order  that 
you  may  toil  over  long  hills  and  through  bad 
roads  by  the  appointed  time.     There  you  meet 


186  ENGLAND, 

a  set  of  highly  dull  and  respectable  people — who 
talk  of  the  weather,  and  the  crops,  and  the 
times,  and  the  game,  and  hunting,  and  the  sport 
they  have  had  in  the  morning,  and  the  next 
Quarter  Sessions — until  at  last  dinner  is  over, 
and  the  ladies  retire; — and  they  talk  of  the 
badness  of  their  servants,  and  the  perfections  of 
their  children — or  the  respective  merits  of  their 
milliners — till  tea  is  over.  Then  a  whist  table 
is  put  in  action,  and  one  part  of  the  company 
play,  and  another  yawn  over  it; — and  they 
literally  play  long  whist,  for  there  seems  no  end 
of  it.  Then,  at  last,  home  we  come  again,  over 
the  same  weary  roads  and  hills,  and  get  back 
again  just  at  bed  time,  after  spending  eight  or 
nine  mortal  hours  in  this  improving  and  agree- 
able manner.  O  !  I  have  been  often  ready  to 
ejaculate,  with  honest  old  Soame  Jenyns  : — 

Defend  us  all,  ye  Gods,  though  sinners, 
From  many  days  like  these— and  dinners !' 

'  But  have  you  no  pleasant  young  people  .?"' 
'  No,   very  few.     The  young  ladies  are  but 
insipid  common-place  sort  of  concerns — and  as  to 
young   men,    they   are   so   rare    that  they   are 


ENGLAND.  187 

perfectly  raree  shews ;  and  think  themselves 
such  prizes,  and  are  evidently  so  persuaded  that 
every  woman  they  meet  must  be  longing  to 
marry  them,  that  they  are  rather  disagreeable 
than  agreeable  additions — even  to  such  society.' 

'  But  a  little  flirtation  with  them  would  be  a 
most  laudable  recreation.  It  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  make  their  hearts  ache/ 

'  It  would  be  most  undesirable — for  what  a 
plague  they  would  be  !  Besides,  it  would  be 
impossible :  even '  the  dear  delight  of  giving  pain,** 
could  not  be  enjoyed,  for  alas  ! 

With  every  grace  of  nature  and  of  art, 

We  cannot  break  one  stubborn  country  heart ; 

The  brutes  insensible  our  power  defy, 

To  love — exceeds  a  squire's  capacity, — 

At  least  in  Westmoreland.' 

'  And  yet  you  like  this  place  !' 

'  I  like  to  live  there — ^but  certainly  not  to 
dine  out ; — for  the  only  pleasure  of  the  day  is 
the  moment  one  gets  home  at  night.' 

'  But  why  do  you  come  home  ?  Why  don't 
you  stay  all  night  .^' 


188  ENGLAND. 

'  Worse  and  worse  !  Then  half  the  next  day 
is  lost  too  !  No  ! — a  country  home  is  delightful, 
but  country  visits  are  intolerable.  No  society  is 
so  delightful,  as  that  of  the  friends  and  associates 
you  really  love,  staying  with  you  in  the 
country,  or  you  with  them — ^but  it  is  a  bitter 
penance  to  visit  people,  merely  because  they  live 
within  so  many  miles,  and  have  so  many 
acres, — ^not  because  they  have  so  many  qualities 
or  attractions.  And  that  they  live  near  one,  is 
often  enough  to  make  one  wish  them  at  Jerusalem. 

'But  I  think  country  balls  must  be  very 
pleasant — where  you  know  every  body,  and 
every  body  knows  you.' 

'  A  county  ball !  Fortunately  a  rare  event 
with  us  !  When  this  purgati^  happens,  you 
travel  over  the  same  weary  hills  and  roads,  with 
the  difference  of  going  at  night  and  coming 
home  in  the  morning,  to  meet  the  same  good 
sort  of  people — in  whose  faces  you  have  been 
ready  to  yawn  in  their  own  houses : — you 
enquire  after  people  you  dont  care  for — talk  to 
people  you  dont  like — and  kjok  at  people,  not 
worth  seeing.    You  have  bad  music,  bad  dancing. 


ENGLAND.  189 

and  stupid  partners  : — and  you  go  to  bed  when 
you  should  get  up.' 

'  And  is  this  all  your  gaiety  in  the  country  ?' 

'  All  ! — the  attempts  of  people  in  the  country 
to  emulate  the  gaiety  of  town,  always  remind 
me  of  the  ass  in  the  fable's  awkward  endeavours 
to  ape  the  graceful  gambols  of  the  lap-dog.' 

'  Why  Caroline  !  who  would  have  thought 
you  so  difficult  to  please  ?  You  neither  like 
London  nor  the  country  !' 

'  On  the  contrary  I  like  them  both  with  all 
my  heart.  The  country — not  for  the  sake  of 
country  visiting,  certainly — ^but  for  its  own  true 
pleasures ;  pleasures  which  never  tire.  Of 
London  pleasures  one  does  tire — at  last ;  but  I 
delight  in  London  for  a  time  ;  and  I  Uke  it  best 
during  our  long  bleak  pining  spring,  when 
nature  and  the  weather  are  in  opposition,  when 
the  days  are  so  long  they  have  no  end,  and 
you  are  compelled  to  look  out  till  nearly  bed 
time  on  the  cheerless  prospect  of  leafless  trees 
and  blighted  blossoms,  and  a  chilled  withering 
earth.  1  have  often  seen  the  ground  covered 
with  snow  in  the  middle  of  May  ;  that  delightful 


190  ENGLAND. 

month  of  which  the  poets  sing  in  such  raptures  ! 
I  like  London  then.  There  is  no  society  equal 
to  London  society.  Its  pleasures  are  inexhaus- 
tible.' 

'  And  yet,  Caroline,  between  ourselves,  I  do 
think  the  envied  people  who  take  the  lead  and 
give  the  tone  to  London  society,  are  far  from 
happy.  They  affect  gaiety  and  vivacity,  to  be 
sure,  but  they  cannot  conceal  their  real  unhap- 
piness  and  discontent.' 

'  O  f  people  that  live  as  they  do-^entirely 
for  display — ^must  be  unhappy  every  where. 
The  fault  is  not  in  London,  but  in  themselves. 
They  seek  society  as  they  do  a  glass — ^not  for 
itself,  but  for  the  image  it  gives  them  back  of 
themselves.  London  is  delightful  for  those  who 
only  want  to  enjoy  it,  but  miserable  for  those 
who  want  to  shine  in  it.  Delightful  for  those  who 
wish  to  see ;  miserable  for  those  who  live  only  to 
to  be  seen.  They  force  themselves  on  the  stage, 
and  fatigue  themselves  by  representation,  '  and 
fret  their  little  hour,'  for  the  amusement  of  the 
others  ;  and  perhaps  are  assailed  by  hissing  and 
hooting,  and  derision.     There  is  Lady ' 


ENGLAND.  191 

The  conversation  here  turned,  (as  conver- 
sation often  does),  from  general  observations  into 
a  more  piquante  dissection  of  individual  charac- 
ters ; — which,  no  doubt,  would  afford  great 
amusement  to  the  fair  friends,  but  would  prove 
very  dull  to  the  fair  reader.  We  therefore  hold 
it  unnecessary  to  record  it. 

It  may  be  observed  that  Miss  St.  Clair's 
spirits  did  not  seem  much  affected  by  Mr. 
Lindsay's  absence.  Whether  or  not  she  did 
feel  any  sensation  of  disappointment  at  his  rapid 
flight  to  England,  without  uttering  one  expres- 
sion of  regret  at  departure,  or  wish  to  return, 
we  dare  not  presume  to  guess ; — ^but  certain  it 
is,  if  she  did  feel  it,  she  had  too  much  spirit 
to  shew  it — too  much  pride  to  own  it — and  far 
too  much  sense  to  indulge  it. 


CHAPTER  X. 


CHAMOUNI. 


It  was  a  chosen  plot  of  fertile  land 
Emongst  wild  hills  set — like  a  little  nest, 
As  if  it  had  by  nature's  cunning  hand 
Been  choycely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest, 
And  lay'd  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best. 

Spenser. 
Musing  meditation  most  effects 
The  pensive  secresy  of  desert  cell, 
Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men  and  herds. 


After  many  delays  and  changes  of  plan, 
the  day  was  at  last  fixed  for  the  excursion  to 
Chamouni  by  way  of  Geneva,  and  the  party 
accordingly  set  off,  in  an  open  barouche,  in 
high  spirits,  for  that  celebrated  valley  of 
mountains.  So  wonderfully  has  nature  hidden 
this  secluded  recess,   that  it  is  said  actually  to 


CHAMOUNI.  193 

have  remained  wholly  undiscovered  until  the 
middle  of  the  last  century — unknown  even  to 
the  Swiss  themselves.  Two  enterprising  English 
travellers  were  the  first  who  penetrated  its 
unexplored  depths,  and  proclaimed  the  sublimity 
of  its  unparallelled  scenery  to  the  world.* 

We  deeply  regret  that  the  irrecoverable  loss 
of  Caroline  St.  Clair's  letters  to  her  sister,  during 
this  little  tour,  obliges  us  to  supply  the  blank  with 
our  lame  and  imperfect  history,  since  it  is 
impossible  for  us,  with  all  our  ingenuity  and 
knowledge,  to  know  so  well  what  the  travellers 
saw,  and  what  they  thought,  as  they  did 
themselves ; — although  we  ought  to  blush  for 
our  deficiency  in  this  respect,  since  certainly 
many  writers  seem  much  better  acquainted  with 
the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  those  whose  histories 
they  relate,  than  the  said  personages  were 
themselves: — and   indeed   it  is   quite   common 


•  So  says  M.  Ebel— Vide  Manuel  du  Voyageur  en  Suisse. 
Pococke  the  traveller,  and  Mr.  Wyndham,  were  the  English 
gentlemen  who  first  visited  it,  in  1741. 

VOL.   I.  '  O 


191  CHAMOUNI. 

in  this  well-informed  age,  to  find  that  your 
neighbours  know  far  more  of  your  affairs  than 
you  do  yourself. 

It  had  been  settled  that  Mrs.  Cleveland  and 
Lord  Lumbercourt — neither  of  whom  could 
undertake  any  of  those  adventurous  exploits  of 
Alp  hunting  usually  performed  at  Chamouni — 
nor  yet  scale  the  sublime  passes  which  divide  its 
upper  extremity  from  Martigny,  should  q^iickly 
return  to  Geneva  together,  by  the  road  they 
came,  after  visiting  all  the  accessible  wonders  of 
the  valley  : — while  Colonel  Cleveland,  with  Miss 
St.  Clair  and  Mademoiselle  Delemont,  were  to 
explore  every  Alp  and  glacier  accessible  to 
human  or  mulish  foot — and  crossing  the  Col  de 
Balme,  return  by  Martigny  to  Lausanne. 
Nothing  can  be  more  opposite  (in  character) 
than  the  opposite  shores  of  the  Leman  Lake. 
On  the  Swiss  side,  where  Vevey  and  Lausatme 
stand,  there  is  an  endless  succession  of  vine- 
yards,— invariably  the  most  tame  and  unpictur- 
esque  of  all  scenery — of  towns  and  villages,  and 
campagnes,  and  gardens,  and  stone  wall  enclo- 
sures, while  not  a  tree  is  to  be   seen. — On  the 


CHAMOUNI.  195 

Savoy  side,  the  Alps — '  the"*  pyramids  '  of 
nature,'  rear  their  crystal  '  needles'*  to  the 
skies; — rocks  piled  on  rocks  are  strewed  around, 
and  ancient  woods  of  oak  and  chesnuts,  the 
most  picturesque  of  all  trees,  now  climb  the 
dark  sides  of  the  hills — now  bend  their  drooping 
foliage  over  the  waters  of  the  lake. — Conse- 
quently the  ugliest  side  is  much  the  prettiest — 
I  mean  to  travel  or  live  upon  ; — for  while  Savoy 
beholds  only  the  homely  hard-working  face  of 
her  opposite  neighbour, — the  Canton  de  Vaud, 
happily  losing  sight  of  her  own  plain  visage, 
contemplates  the  fine  features  of  the  opposite 
beauty. 

It  may  easily  be  imagined,  therefore,  that 
the  attention  of  our  travellers,  during  their 
first  day''s  journey,  which  terminated  at  Ge- 
neva, was  continually  drawn  to  the  mountains 
of  Savoy — more  especially  towards  its  close, 
when  their  eyes  were  incessantly  rivetted  upon 
the  ultimate  object  of  their  excursion,  still  far 
distant,  yet  alone  distinctly  seen — the  mighty 
Mont  Blanc — ^his  awful  head,  hoary  with  the 
silver  whiteness  of  age,  outstretching  his  giant 
o  2 


196  CHAMOUNI. 

length  far  along  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake, 
and  piercing  with  his  hundred  heads  the  bright 
blue  arch  of  heaven  ; — as  if,  like  another  Atlas, 
his  lofty-pointed  pyramids  were  the  pillars  of 
the  firmament,  and  he  the  Colossus  of  this  world, 
stood  alone,  looking  down  on  the  Alps  them- 
selves, his  children, — surrounding  him  in  seem- 
ing reverence ; — while  man — to  whom  '  the 
whole  earth,  and  all  that  it  inherits,'  are  sub- 
ject— ^is  compelled  to  gaze  like  a  humble  wor- 
shipper, at  the  footstool  of  his  throne,  nor  ever 
presumes,  in  the  madness  of  his  ambition,  to 
lay  claim  to  one  inch  of  that  undisputed 
territory  which  the  monarch  of  mountains  calls 
his  own. 

The  travellers,  on  their  way  to  Geneva, 
stopped  at  Coppet,  the  residence  of  Madame 
de  Stael,  but  as  she  was  not  there,  and  as  it 
possesses  no  intrinsic  interest,  their  curiosity 
was  soon  satisfied — if  not  gratified; — though 
there  is  always  a  charm  in  seeing  the  habita- 
tion and  apartments,  which  are  the  home  of 
genius.  They  proceeded  a  few  miles  beyond 
Geneva,  to  visit  Ferney,  the  celebrated  abode 


CHAMOUNI.  197 

of  Voltaire — where  all  the  traces  the  philosopher 
has  left  behind  him,  serve  but  to  mark  consum- 
mate vanity,  bad  taste,  and  bad  feehng. 

Next  morning  they  set  off  on  their  way  to 
Chamouni,  at  an  early  hour — for  even  Lord 
Lumbercourt  could  be  early,  when  roused  by  a 
powerful  stimulus, — whether  that  stimulus  was 
the  sight  of  the  frozen  glaciers,  or  the  sunny  smiles 
of  Miss  St.  Clair,  we  pretend  not  to  decide. 

Leaving  on  their  right  the  broken  perpendi- 
cular sides  of  Mount  Saleve,  they  reached  the 
Sardinian  Douane — at  the  frontier  of  Savoy — 
which  was  already  crowded  with  the  carts  and 
anxious  faces  of  the  poor  peasants — waiting  the 
vexatious  examination,  and  dilatory  permit  ot 
the  Douaniers,  to  pass  the  barrier.  While  the 
patrician  vehicle  of  the  English  travellers  was 
only  delayed  for  a  few  moments,  these  poor 
people  were  left  waiting. — They  said  they  were 
often  detained  for  half  a  day  on  the  most 
frivolous  pretexts ;  from  the  mere  wanton  love 
of  power,  the  insolence  or  indolence  of  office, 
or  some  of  the  manifold  abuses  to  which  all 
such  oppressive  and  impolitic  restrictive  insti-^ 
tutions  are  liable. 


198  CIIAMOUNI. 

On  entering  Savoy,  the  appearance  of  the 
country  immediately  changes  for  the  worse — 
wretched  villages,  filled  with  squalid,  beggarly 
inhabitants,  and  surrounded  by  neglected  ill 
cultivated  fields,  proclaim  too  plainly  the  con- 
dition of  the  people,  and  present  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of 
Switzerland  on  its  very  borders,  although  pos- 
sessing over  it  no  physical  advantages.  Cli- 
mate, soil,  situation,  and  natural  resources  being 
the  same  in  both  states,  the  difference  between 
them — ^which  is  that  between  misery  and 
prosperity— between  poverty  and  plenty- — must 
be  attributed  to  moral  causes ;  and  nothing  can 
more  strongly  exhibit  the  evils  of  despotic 
government  and  Catholic  religion  in  one  state, 
and  the  benefits  of  free  administration  and  Pro- 
testant faith  in  the  other. 

Goitres  and  Cretinism,  the  scourges  of  the 
Alps,  seemed  to  abound  as  they  advanced : 
increased  probably  by  the  bad  food  and  clothing 
of  the  people.  It  was  melancholy  to  see  the 
helpless  appearance  and  disgusting  gestures  of 
the  poor  creatures  that  stood  gaping  with  the 
vacant  stare  and  glazed  eye  of  diseased  idiotism, 


CHAMOUNl.  199 

as  the  carriage  passed.  The  contrast  of  the 
extreme  flatness  of  the  road,  with  the  tremen- 
dous mountains,  close  above  and  around  you, 
through  the  romantic  defiles  of  which  it  beauti- 
fully winds,  amidst  scenery  every  varying,  yet 
ever  grand — forms  one  of  the  most  striking  fea- 
tures of  the  drive,.  At  the  little  village  of 
Contamine,  the  high  conical  mountain  of  Mole 
rises  directly  before  you.  Further  forward,  upon 
the  summit  of  a  towering  rock,  which  seems  to 
hang  in  air,  stand  the  ruins  of  the  Chateau 
de  Faucigny ;  and  some  of  the  bloody  tales  of 
terror  and  oppression  which  tradition  has 
attached  to  its  shattered  walls,  would  form  as  fit 
a  subject,  as  its  wild  Alpine  situation  a  scene,  for 
one  of  Mrs.  RadclifFe's  terrific  romances. 

Another  change, — and  you  pass  through  the 
little  town  of  Bonneville,  with  every  thing  in 
miniature  ! — Its  Place  Publique,  its  Hotel  de 
Ville,  its  promenade,  and  its  '  rangs  de  beaux 
peupliers  V  Scarcely  have  you  passed  through 
its  streets  and  shops,  till  nature  resumes  her 
Alpine  majesty. 

Cluse  stands  in  a  most  romantic  pass.  To 
the    right    an    immense    gorge    opens    in    the 


200  CHAMOUNI. 

mountain,  down  which,  in  the  wilds  of  this 
savage  solitude,  once  stood  the  famous  con- 
vent of  the  Chartreuse  du  Reposoir.  The 
mountains  which  now  bounded  the  view, 
were  covered  with  lofty  woods,  the  narrow 
valley  shone  in  the  brightest  verdure,  the  sun- 
beams glancing  on  the  jutting  rocks  far  above, 
and  on  the  wild  stream  as  it  dashed  along  in  its 
deep  stony  bed,  formed  a  thousand  beautiful 
accidents  of  light.  As  the  travellers,  fol- 
lowing the  course  of  the  rapid  Arve,  winded 
along  through  the  valley,  the  scenery  every 
moment  increased  in  grandeur.  Well  may 
this  pass  be  called  '  one  of  the  noblest  gates 
of  the  Alps  V  Strait  before  you,  barring  all 
apparent  possibihty  of  passage  up  the  deep 
narrow  defile  through  which  the  road  winds,  the 
Alps,  those  tremendous  ramparts  of  nature,  rise 
in  embattled  grandeur ;  piercing  the  blue  skies 
with  their  pointed  needles,  their  crystal  pyramids, 
and  glittering  cones,  in  every  grotesque  and 
varied  shape — the  lower  region  of  their  preci- 
pitous sides  overhung  with  wood,  or  beetling 
crags — leaving  yawning  caverns  and  grottos, 
half-seen   amongst    their  rugged  cliffs,    almost 


CHAMOUNI. 


201 


above  human  ken,  and  accessible  only  to  the 
eagle's  flight. 

Of  these,  the  most  considerable  is  the  cavern 
of  Balme,  at  an  immense  height  above  the 
valley,  but  accessible,  although  it  does  not 
repay  the  labour  of  the  ascent.  Further  on,  is 
the  cascade,  or  Nant  d'Arpenas— upwards  of 
eight  hundred  feet  in  height— but  formed  by  a 
stream  deficient  in  body  of  water,  which  falls 
over  a  broad  naked  rock.  As  they  advanced, 
Mont  Blanc,  rising  in  dazzling  majesty,  termi- 
nated the  view. 

On  the  left  appears  the  glacier  de  Buet ; 
where  an  unfortunate  Danish  traveller  perished  a 
few  years  ago.  In  ascending  the  glacier,  the  ice 
gave  way  beneath  his  feet,  and  engulfed  him  in 
its  yawning  abyss,  at  the  depth  of  more  than  a 
hundred  feet.  His  monument  stands  upon  the 
way — a  beacon  to  warn  travellers. 

It  was  with  regret — regret  seldom  felt  when 
a  journey,  however  pleasant  it  may  be  called,  is 
ended— that  our  travellers  stopped  for  the  day 
at  the  httle  inn  of  St.  Martin.  But  it  was  not 
with  regret  that  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  disco- 


202  CHAMOUNI. 

vering  that  they  were  very  hungry — and  that 
even  the  Alps  themselves  were  very  unsub- 
stantial fare.  Then,  when  dinner  was  over, 
how  delightful  was  their  evening  walk  to  Mont 
Rosset  ! — But  the  magnificent  prospect  they 
enjoyed  from  thence — and  the  resplendent  spec- 
tacle of  the  sun  setting  upon  Mont  Blanc — no 
power  of  language,  nor  even  of  diviner  poetry, 
can  describe.  It  left  upon  the  minds  of  those 
who  beheld  it,  an  impression  time  can  never 
ejfFace.  There  is,  indeed,  no  spot  from  which  Mont 
Blanc,  that  '  monarch  of  mountains,'  appears  in 
greater  majesty  than  from  here.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  describe  its  sublimity.  Deep  rooted  in 
the  mysterious  foundations  of  the  earth,  it  stands 
the  monument  of  nature — the  mightiest  of  her 
creations;  alone,  left  through  successions  of  revol- 
ving ages,  unaltered,  unrenewed,  while  all  else 
changes  and  perishes — to  proclaim  the  sublimity 
of  her  works  and  the  magnitude  of  her  power. 
Upon  its  lofty  seat  her  throne  is  established — 
upon  its  hoary  summit,  uninvaded  by  mortal  tread, 
she  sits  in  sublime  contemplation,  to  view  the  sub- 
ject world  she  has  made,  extended  at  her  feet. 


CHAMOUNI.  203 

The  real  summit  of  Mont  Blanc — its  highest 
point — is  not  seen  from  St.  Martin's.  It  is  that 
summit  called  the  Dome  de  Goute,  which  here 
terminates  its  gigantic  elevation. 

Carriages  are  left  at  St.  Martin's,*  and  next 
morning  our  travellers — like  other  travellers — 
took  chars  a  cote  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  But 
fearing  the  courteous  reader  may  be  wearied  with 
descriptions  of  scenery  he  cannot  see — as  much 
as  Sancho  Panza  was  with  enumerations  of 
dishes  that  he  might  not  eat — we  forbear  to 
descant  upon  the  inexhaustible  beauties  of  their 
route.  We  pass  by,  undescribed,  the  crystal 
pool  or  lake  of  Chede — like  the  emerald  haunt 
of  fairies — with  its  beautiful  waterfall ; — the 
Pont  des  Che\res  and  the  Chute  d"*  Arve, 
which  is  not  so  much  a  cascade  as  a  furious 
torrent,  rushing  down  a  headlong  descent  in  one 


*  Near  the  little  town  of  Sallenches,  a  quarter  of  a 
league  from  St.  Martin's — are  the  baths  of  St.  Gervais,  sunk 
in  a  deep  ravine  at  the  base  of  the  Alps.  The  water  is  a 
very  strong  and  very  hot  sulphurous  saline  spring — similar 
to  Harrogate  in  its  ({ualities,  and  to  Bath  iii  its  temperature. 


204  CHAMOUNl. 

continued  roar  of  foam ; — the  deep  ravine,  choked 
with  huge  fragments  of  rock,  down  which  rages 
the  dark  rolling  torrent  of  the  Nant  Noir : — the 
ruins  of  an  Alpine  castle,  the  Chateau  St.  Michel, 
perched  amongst  rocks  and  precipices,  and  roaring 
waters  and  woods  of  pine,  the  haunt  of  prowling 
wolves  and  wheeling  eagles : — we  pass  by  the 
ruins  of  a  mountain  called  the  Aiguille  de  Varens, 
or  Anterne,  which,  by  the  yielding  of  the  strata 
beneath  it,  fell,  or  rather  sunk  down  upon  the  vale, 
the  eboulement  continuing  many  days,  during 
which  the  air,  even  to  Chamouni,  was  darkened 
and  choked  with  the  thick  dust  of  the  crumbling 
mass,  and  the  roar  of  the  falling  fragments  sounded 
like  incessant  peals  of  thunder.  The  black  and 
broken  wrecks  still  lie  scattered  for  miles  over 
the  blasted  face  of  nature.  We  pass  by  the 
view  from  the  Pont  de  Pelissier,  beneath  which 
roars  the  impetuous  Arve, — the  deep  sunk  basin 
of  Servoz,  once  said  to  have  been  a  lake,  that 
emptied  itself  by  forcing  through  the  rocks  at 
its  lower  extremity,  and  buried  beneath  their 
ruins  the  ancient  town  of  Dionysia — with  all  its 
inhabitants — which  remain  beneath  the  surface  to 
this  day.    We  spare  the  reader  the  fatigue  of  the 


CHAMOUNI.  205 

long  ascent  from  the  vale  of  Servoz  to  the  summit 
of  the  last  ridge  ;  and,  finally,  the  descent  into 
the  vale  of  Chamouni.  All  this  temptation  to 
fill  pages  upon  pages  with  descriptions  of  the 
picturesque,  the  beautiful,  the  romantic,  and 
the  sublime,  we  resist — and  confine  ourselves 
simply  to  record  that  our  travellers  found  them- 
selves at  last  in  the  enchanting  vale  of  Chamouni. 
This  singular  valley  lies  close  along  the 
very  base  of  Mont  Blanc  on  one  side — on  the 
other  of  Mont  Breven,  whose  summits,  to  ap- 
pearance, scarcely  less  lofty  and  precipitous, 
are  called  the  Aiguilles  Rouges. — It  extends, 
like  a  narrow  verdant  pathway,  between  two 
stupendous  walls  of  ice,  which,  like  towers  of 
Babel,  reach  even  to  the  skies.  The  peaceful 
beauty  of  the  vale,  its  rich  verdure,  its  lowing 
herds,  its  scattered  cottages,  its  fruitful  orchards, 
its  ripening  fields  of  corn,  compressed  as  it  were 
between  these  sublime  ranges  of  Alps,  and  in 
actual  contact  with  their  eternal  snows — present 
a  scene  so  striking — so  unlike  any  thing  else  on 
earth — that  the  dullest  of  mankind  cannot  behold 
it  without  astonishment  and  admiration.      At 


206  CHAMOUNI. 

the  first  glacier,*  and  all  the  glaciers  in  their 
progress  up  the  valley,  the  travellers  left  their 
chars  to  wonder  and  to  gaze.  The  glaciers  are 
vast  accumulations  of  ice,  that  fill  the  deep 
fissures  in  the  precipitous  sides  of  the  mountain, 
and  tower  far  above  their  cavities.  By  the  slow 
dissolution  of  their  lower  extremities  in  the 
warmth  of  the  summer,  and  the  force  of  their 
own  tremendous  masses,  they  slowly  move 
downwards  into  the  valley,  with  a  regular 
hissing  noise — ^their  projecting  pointed  extre- 
mities, like  enormous  plough  shares,  tearing  up 
huge  rocks  and  ancient  trees,  and  houses,  and 

harvests,     in    their    relentless    progress and 

threatening  at  last  to  choke  up  the  valley,  and 
form  a  bridge  of  ice  from  mountain  to  mountain  ; 
a  danger  which  their  more  rapid  dissolution,  as 
they  descend  deeper  into  the  vale,  alone  can 
avert.  Nothing  can  be  more  wonderful  than 
the   sight   of  these   tremendous   icy  engines — 


*  The  glacier  des  Bossons. — The  glacier  des  Bois  is  the 
finest  in  the  valley. 


CHAMOUNI.  207 

cutting  their  slow  way  through  fertility  and 
beauty.  You  may  watch  the  very  flowers  that 
bloom  at  their  edge,  till  they  are  buried  beneath 
their  broken  masses.  Their  surface  is  the  very 
reverse  of  the  smoothness  or  the  colour  of  ice — 
heaved  up  into  towering  columns  and  broken 
pyramids,  and  heaps  of  the  most  grotesque 
form — and  yawning  with  deep  chasms  and 
horrid  cavities  that  would  swallow  up  whole 
armies.  They  are  covered  with  such  quantities 
of  broken  rocks  and  soil,  and  earth  through 
which  they  work  their  way,  that  their  lower 
parts  no  longer  retain  any  trace  of  whiteness  or 
transparency,  but  present  a  dirty  disgusting 
mass,  scarcely  to  be  recognised  as  ice. 

Having  arrived  at  the  Prieure  de  Chamouni, 
the  rural  village  which  may  be  considered  the 
metropolis  of  the  valley,  and  secured  apartments 
at  the  Hotel  de  Londres,  which,  in  proof  of  its 
appropriate  appellation,  seemed  crowded  with 
Londoners — they  set  ofi*  to  ramble  in  search  of 
Alpine  views,  until  the  dinner  hour  of  the  Table 
d"  Hote  should  summon  them  back. 


208  ^       CHAMOUNI. 

At  the  distance  of  about  a  mile  from  the 
inn,  they  suddenly  heard,  as  they  passed  a 
wood  of  pine  trees,  the  shrill  voluble  lamen- 
tations of  a  female  voice,  mingled  with  the 
hoarse  laughter  and  exclamations  of  men.  They 
hastened  to  the  spot,  and  beheld  a  female, 
perched  high  upon  a  part  of  the  shelving 
projection  of  a  crag,  with  broken  rocks  and 
hanging  bushes  above  her  on  one  side.  At  a 
little  distance  on  the  other,  stood  the  apparent 
object  of  her  terror — a  reverend  he-goat,  who 
having  stationed  himself  upon  a  point  of  rock, 
was  peeping  over  it,  in  grave  admiration  of 
the  extraordinary  spectacle  she  presented — and  a 
neighbouring  red  cow,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
crag  adjoining  the  hill,  seemed  also  looking  at 
her  with  some  surprise.  For  her  flimsy  tawdry 
gown  torn  into  tatters,  was  'streaming  like  a 
meteor  to  the  troubled  air;""  at  every  flutter 
catching  afresh  upon  the  briars  and  brambles 
which  dangled  down  from  the  rock  above  her — 
her  transparent  gauze  Paris  bonnet,  bedizened 
with  artificial  flowers,  and  her  lace  veil,  were  so 


CHAMOUNI.  ^09 

entangled  in  a  thick  mass  of  briars,  that  her 
head  was  held  completely  fast  by  them ;  while 
she  kept  struggling  to  liberate  herself,  and 
screaming  out  '  Save  me  !  save  me  !  murder  ! 
von't  nobody  save  me  !  The  wile  beast  vill  kill 
me,  I  know  he  vill — the  great  homy  monster  ! 
O  dear  !  O  dear  !  I  shall  be  eat  up  alive  by  the 
camel !'  This  '  camel' — (probably  she  meant 
chamois) — or  '  great  homy  monster,' — alias  the 
he-goat — continued  to  look  at  her  in  his  phleg- 
matic manner,  certainly  not  paying  less  regard 
to  her  distress  than  the  men  she  was  adjuring  for 
help — who  were  standing  below  her  at  the  bottom 
of  the  rock.  Two  of  them  were  in  convulsions 
of  noisy  laughter,  the  third  was  gravely  expostu- 
lating with  her. 

'  Dinna  loup  Miss  Beedy,  ye  canna  won 
down  ava.'  Just  had  still  wi'  ye  a  wee  bit — 
canna  ye  bide  still  ?  The  puir  beast  winna  stick 
ye — Haud  a  wee,  and  I'll  come  up  by  till  'ye  by 
the  back  side  o'  the  craig,  and  bring  ye  roond — 
ye  maun  gang  the  ither  gate,  I'm  thinking.' 

'  The  cow  !  the  cow  !'  exclaimed  Miss  Biddy. 

VOL.    I.  P 


210  CHAMOUNI. 

'  Hoot,  hoot,  dinna  fash  yourself  wi'  the  puir 
coo.  Dinna  greet :  — noo  dinna  greet,  ma  woom  an ! ' 
— ^he  exclaimed,  as  Miss  Biddy's  lamentations 
became  louder  and  louder  at  seeing  him  disappear 
round  the  foot  of  the  rock.  But  clambering  up 
by  its  opposite  side,  which,  resting  against  the 
steep  hill,  was  a  much  shorter  and  easier  ascent 
than  the  face  of  the  cliff — he  gained  the  top  with 
much  more  agility  than  his  sturdy  square  built 
figure  seemed  to  promise,  and  called  out  from  the 
rock  above  her — '  Here  !  gie's  a  hand,  ma'  dow.' 
'  Na,  na,'  seeing  Miss  Biddy  vainly  attempting  to 
tear  away  the  tattered  gauze  bonnet — *  Ye  maun 
just  loose  the  bonnet  I'm  dooting' — and  the 
strings  being  untied,  and  the  goat  making  a 
sudden  motion  with  his  head  as  if  he  meditated 
a  leap.  Miss  Biddy  gave  a  simultaneous  scream 
and  spring,  and  aided  by  the  Scotchman's 
brawny  arm,  was  placed  at  once  by  his  side  on 
the  top  of  the  crag  ;  but  the  bonnet,  with  all  her 
'  heid  gear,'  as  the  Scotchman  called  it,  including 
the  little  wig  that  formed  the  front,  and  all  the 
engaging  ringlets  that  had  but  a  moment  before 
played  round   Miss   Biddy's   fair   cheeks,   was 


CHAMOUNI.  211 

left  behind — sticking  fast  in  the  brambles — 
while  Miss  Biddy's  o^vn  lank,  thin,  dishevelled 
locks — which  had  been  combed  back  from  her 
forehead,  and  were  pulled  down  by  the  violent 
separation  between  the  head  and  bonnet,  dangled 
woefully  about  her  ears — like  long  candle  ends. 

The  good  natured  Scotchman,  however, 
though  wholly  unable  to  refrain  from  joining  in 
the  universal  laugh  this  exposure  of  Miss  Biddy's 
bare  head  excited,  having  assisted  her  past  her 
enemies,  the  cow  and  goat,  and  down  the  other 
side  of  the  rock,  to  her  friends  at  the  bottom, 
returned  to  the  shelf  of  rock  she  had  occupied, 
and  having  extricated,  by  main  force,  the 
tattered  wreck  of  the  bonnet — the  tenacious 
briars  still  retaining  the  chief  part  of  the  flowers 
and  veil,  and  much  of  the  gauze,  as  their  own 
spoil — he  returned  it,  with  its  dangling  ringlets, 
to  Miss  Biddy's  bare  head. 

To  account  for  Miss  Biddy's  being  thus 
left,  like  Andromeda  on  the  rock,  to  be  devoured 
by  the  monster  of  a  he-goat — till  another  Perseus, 
in  the  shape  of  Andra'  Macgregor,  came  to  her 
rescue — we  must  observe,  that  one  end  of  the 
p2 


212  CHAMOUNI. 

long  ridge  of  rock  on  which  she  was  found, 
joined  the  hill  behind — and  in  descending  this 
hill,  she  had  wandered  along  this  very  tempting 
looking  terrace,  '  unting  views  of  the  Holpes,' 
she  said,  when  suddenly  the  '  orrid  camel' 
appeared — which  had  been  hidden  by  the  trees — 
just  ready  to  jump  upon  'her  and  stick  her ; 
and  when  she  turned  screaming,  to  fly  from 
this  'horny  monster"* — lo  !  another  '  horny  mon- 
ster,' in  the  shape  of  a  cow,  which  had  strayed 
from  the  hill  side  to  the  end  of  the  crag,  confronted 
her  and  obstructed  her  retreat ;  so  thus  placed 
between  Scylla  and  Charybdis — the  cow  and  the 
goat — she  ran  forwards  and  scrambled  down  to 
the  extremity  of  the  rock,  from  which  she  could 
neither  get  backwards  nor  forwards,  and  where 
the  briars  caught  her  hat  and  wig,  utterly 
destroyed  her  flounced  and  furbelowed  gown — 
and  held  her  in  bodily  fear  and  thraldom,  until 
released  by  the  gallant  prowess  of  *  Maister 
Andra'  Macgregor.' 

Her  brother  and  his  cockney  friend, — with 
that  ill-bred  inattention  to  ladies,  which  vulgar 
young  men  always  think  '  the  thing,'  had  left  her 


CHAMOUNI.  213 

to  go  '  holp-unting',  along  the  ledge  of  rock 
by  herself — and  walked  on  strait  down  the  hill ; — 
from  the  bottom  of  which  they  had  stood 
laughing  at  her  situation.  The  good-natured 
Scotch  farmer,  who  had  got  acquainted  with 
'  Mees  Beedy'  and  the  whole  family  party,  the 
day  before,  had  been  drawn  to  the  spot  while 
walking  near,  by  her  cries — just  before  our 
travellers  arrived. 

'  O  Miss,  is  it  you .?'  exclaimed  Miss  Biddy, 
when  having  shaken  herself  after  her  disaster, 
and,  volubly  told  the  story  of  her  dangers,  she 
recognized  in  Miss  St.  Clair,  her  former  fellow 
passenger  in  the  packet  from  Brighton  to 
Dieppe. — *  Who'd  have  thought  of  meeting  you 
here  among  the  Holpes  ? — Gracious  me  ! — 
Well,  I  declare,  Miss,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you. 
It's  quite  romantic — is'nt  it  T 

But  without  waiting  for  any  answer,  she 
began  with, — '  O  dear  !  O  dear  !  only  do  look, 
Tom ! — Look  at  my  noo  gown  !'  and  Miss 
Biddy's  lamentations  over  the  destruction  of  her 
finery,  were  not  less  long  and  loud,  than  they 
had  been  about  *  the  camel.' 


214  CHAMOUNI. 

'  Why,  Mees  Beedy,  if  you'd  had  a  bean 
looking  Leghorn  hat  till  your  heed,  and  a  dooce 
sensible  like  silk  goon  till  your  back — ^like  them 
ladies — instead  of  a'  yon  freepery,  you  wad  na' 
ha**  been  reeven  to  rags,  like  a  randie.' 

'  Frippery,  indeed  !'  exclaimed  Miss  Biddy ; 
whose  rage  at  this  disparagement  of  her  finery, 
could  scarcely  be  restrained  within  decent 
bounds;-— all  the  services  the  good-natured 
Scotchman  had  rendered  her,  from  this  moment 
being  completely  cancelled  in  her  eyes  by  that 
single  word — '  Frippery,  indeed  !'  and  straight- 
way she  poured  forth  an  angry  torrent  of  volu- 
bility upon  the  unlucky  Scot,  that  lasted  long 
after  he  was  out  of  hearing ;  for,  having  vainly 
endeavoured  to  mollify  her  with  a — '  Weel, 
weel !  I  didna'  ken  ye'd  hae'  been  sae  angVed,' 
he  walked  away  from  the  storm  he  had 
unwittingly  raised. 

At  the  Table  d'  Hote,  young  Blossom  and 
his  friend,  whom  he  designated  as  ^  Mr.  White- 
staple,'  or  as  he  called  it  '  Vitestaple,  an  eminent 
silk-mercer  from  Vood  Street,'  found  fault 
with  every  thing  and  every  body.     '  The  vine 


CHAMOUNI.  215 

was  winegar/ — ^  the  wedgittubles  vorse  than 
vormvood,"* — '  and  the  weal  not  worth  heating." — 
Then,  as  to  Chamouni,  *  the  vooden  ouses  vere 
orrid,  the  vinders  igh,  and  the  vomen  ideous.' 
— The  lionest  Scotch  farmer  they  pronounced 
'  wulgar,' — and  Lord  Lumbercourt  they  decided 
upon  being  ^  werry  wulgar  indeed."*  This  opinion, 
which  probably  was  founded  upon  the  redness 
of  his  Lordship'^s  face,  and  a  certain  tendency  to 
corpulence,  was  expressed  loud  enough  to  catch 
Caroline's  ear,  who  was  opposite  to  them,  and 
enjoying  their  anticipated  discomfiture,  from  the 
discovery  of  who  he  was,  she  instantly  addressed 
him  by  the  title  of  '  My  Lord,"*  so  as  they 
could  not  fail  to  hear  it. 

'  Lard,  Brother  !'  exclaimed  Miss  Biddy, 
nudging  young  Blossom  with  her  elbow,  'do 
you  know  thafs  a  Lard  ?' 

'  Don't  nip  my  harm  so,  Biddy  !'  exclaimed  he. 

'  La  Tom  !  now  ow  can  you  be  so  frumpish  "^ 
What  arm  can  there  be  in  touching  your  harm .? 
One  would  think  you  were  made  of  hegg  shells.' 

CaroKne  happened  to  be  seated  next  the 
honest  Scotch  farmer,  and  though  his  manners 
and  dialect   were  certainly  much  broader  and 


216  C^AMOUWI. 

more  vulgar  than  most  of  that  highly  respectable 
class  in  his  own  country,  yet  he  had  all  the 
acute  remark,  strong  shrewd  sense,  sound  judg- 
ment, and  accurate  extensive  inforaaation,  which 
distinguish  his  countrymen ;  and  the  nature  and 
the  sagacity  he  shewed  in  seizing  the  main  points 
of  a  subject — the  originality  of  his  ideas,  the 
genuine  good  humour,  and  even  the  broad  Scotch 
of  his  conversation,  amused  her  extremely : — 
even  his  vulgarity  being  that  of  his  language  and 
country,  and  being  wholly  free  from  affectation 
and  pretence,  had  nothing  in  it  disagreeable  or 
disgusting.  He  was  a  man  apparently  about 
forty-five,  had,  by  some  extraordinary  chance 
escaped  being  married — and  having  made  a  good 
deal  of  money,  he  had  left  the  management  of 
their  extensive  farm  'till  his  brither,  and  just 
come  ower  to  spy  the  ferlies  of  the  countries 
he  had  heard  and  read  so  much  about. 

The  rest  of  the  party,  besides  the  hopeful 
family  of  the  Blossoms— consisted  of  several 
highly  respectable  English — divided  into  little 
knots  of  Papas,  Mammas,  and  Misses — well 
dressed,  well  behaved,  but  remarkably  insipid. 
There  were  two  young  Germans,  very  ill  dressed. 


CHAMOUNI.  ^17 

who  spoke  a  little  very  bad  French — and  seemed 
to  be  very  poor,  and  deeply  tinctured  with  Ger- 
man enthusiasm  and  philosophy.  There  was  one 
Frenchman  who  talked  in  the  style  Frenchmen 
often  talk  of  *  L'  Aimable  Vallee' — and  the 
'  jolies  montagnes."  Another,  a  genuine  Badaud 
de  Paris  on  the  contrary,  with  a  most  piteous 
shrug  exclaimed — *  Mais  mon  Dieu !  quel 
pays! — quels  chemins  afFreux  ! — quels  lieux 
Sauvages !' — and  constant  were  the  prayers  he 
put  up  to  be  once  more  safe  restored  to  Paris. 
There  was  also  a  Russian  Count,  a  young  man 
of  elegant  person  and  manners,  and  princely 
fortune.  He  was  deeply  regretting  the  whole 
of  dinner  time,  that  he  had  not  arrived  at 
Chamouni  in  time  to  have  accompanied  a  young- 
Englishman  who  had  set  off  in  the  morning  on 
that  arduous  and  perilous  undertaking — an 
expedition  to  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc — and 
whose  success  seemed  deeply  to  interest  all  the 
people  of  the  valley.  Mine  host,  who  was 
waiter  in  chief — and  all  the  other  waiters — and 
all  the  guides — and  all  the  peasants  of  Chamouni, 
talked  with  enthusiastic  wonder  of  the  extra- 


218  CHAMOUNI. 

ordinary  feats  of  courage  and  agility  this  same 
'  Milor  Anglais'  had  performed  in  a  Chamois 
hunt,  two  days  before,  which  he  had  undertaken 
with  some  of  the  most  enterprising  guides  and 
hunters  over  the  most  inaccessible  of  the  icy 
heights  of  the  Alps ;  and  in  short,  the  whole 
valley  rung  with  his  praise.  But  nobody  at 
Chamouni  (as  usual)  knew  his  name — for 
English  names  foreigners  can  never  master — nor 
was  his  name  to  be  found  in  the  book  inscribed 
with  the  names  of  all  mine  hosf  s  guests : — for 
'  Milor'  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  a  cottage  in 
the  valley,  on  purpose,  it  was  said,  to  shun  the 
crowds  of  English  at  the  inn — for  which  pro- 
ceeding most  part  of  the  said  English  at  the  inn 
.^— very  charitably  concluded  that  '  Milor'  must 
have  some  reason  not  very  creditable  to  him. 

Before  sun  set  the  mountain  party,  with 
'  Milor,'  that  were  scaling  Mont  Blanc — were 
seen  to  have  gained  the  high  perpendicular  rock 
of  Le  Grand  Mulct,  on  which  they  were  to  pass 
the  night — and  some  rockets  let  off  from  this 
situation  by  the  guides  after  dark,  had  a  pecu- 
liarly fine  effect,  viewed  from  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  MONTANVERT  AND  MER 
DE  GLACE. 


Here — on  snows  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  lightly  tread 
And  leave  no  traces  ;  o*er  the  savage  sea 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam, 
Frozen  in  a  moment. 

Lord  Byron. 


After  breakfast  next  morning,  Colonel 
Cleveland,  Miss  St.  Clair,  and  Mademoiselle 
Delemont,  set  off  for  the  Montanvert  and  the 
Mer  de  Glace.  To  their  utter  astonishment. 
Lord  Lumbercourt  appeared,  mounted  on  a 
mule,  with  a  face  full  of  anxiety  and  care — but 


220  THE    MONTANVERT 

most  determinedly  buttoned  up  for  the  exploit, 
in  great,  coats  and  resolution,  and  attended  by 
Gregory,  looking  most  ominously  solemn,  mount- 
ed on  another  mule. — But  alas  !  the  poor  Peer  ! 
Scarcely  had  the  mule  carried  him  up  one  third  of 
the  steep  ascent  that  mules  usually  go — ^before — 
his  back  nearly  broken  with  attempting  to  stick 
upon  the  animal — ^his  gouty  joints  dislocated  with 
its  motion,  and  his  nerves  shattered  with  the  sight 
of  the  giddy  precipices  on  which  he  hung — he  was 
fain  to  give  up  the  project,  and  turn  back, — to 
which,  perhaps,  he  was  the  more  inclined,  from 
never  having  been  able  to  come  up  with  Miss 
St.  Clair,  who  from  the  beginning  got  far  before 
him.- — Thus  his  Lordship,  like 

The  King  of  France,  with  twenty  thousand  men, 
Went  up  the  hill  and  then  came  down  again. 

But  he  did  not  find  this  coming  down  again  so 
easy  an  undertaking.  The  descent  was  fearfully 
giddy — and,  while  he  was  sitting  repentingly 
on  a  large  stone,  resting  from  his  fatigues — 
with  Gregory  a  little  behind  him,  on  another — 
both  knight  and  squire  looking  wistfully,   with 


AND    MEll    DE    GLACE.  221 

most  rueful  countenances,  over  the  steep  moun- 
tain's side  which  they  had  to  descend,  their 
ears  were  assailed  with  the  sharp  shrill  sounds 
of  a  female  voice  approaching  them,  and  Miss 
Biddy  Blossom,  heard  long  before  she  was  seen, 
at  length  appeared,  dismounted,  and  attended 
by  her  two  elegant  '  beaux' — who,  with  the 
utmost  awkwardness  and  difficulty,  contrived 
to  stick  upon  their  mules — while  she  was  slowly 
clambering  up  the  rugged  ascent  on  foot — and 
talking  all  the  way  with  all  her  might. — When 
she  reached  Lord  Lumbercourt,  to  his  unspeak- 
able consternation,  she  threw  herself  down  on  the 
ground  by  his  side — exclaiming — '  There  now 
— I  v'ont  go  no  furder  vid  you,  I'll  keep  vid  my 
Lard — so  I  vill.' — But  '  my  Lord,'  shrinking 
from  her,  said  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  have  the 
honour  of  attending  her— as  he  was  going  down 
to  Chamouni  again. 

But  Miss  Biddy  declared  that  then  she 
would  go  down  too— for,  indeed,  the  '  orrors 
of  the  vay'  quite  made  her  '  vaint,'  and  Tom  did 
nothing  but  laugh  at  her — and  she  was  certain 


222  THE    MONTANVERT 

she  should  take  'the  asterics'  if  she  vent 
vid  them — so  she  vood  go  with  '  my  Lard'-— 
The  unfortunate  Peer  was  nearly  driven  to  the 
extremity  of  his  complaisance.  Ever  since  Miss 
Biddy  had  discovered  him  to  be  '  a  Lord,'  she 
had  pestered  him  with  her  civilities — assailed 
him  with  her  flatteries— entertained  him  with  her 
conversation — appealed  to  him  with  her  inquiries 
— and  chased  him  about  into  every  corner  with 
her  assiduities.  She  had  been  most  unmercifully 
polite  to  him.  And  now  that  he  found,  in 
addition  to  all  the  terrors  and  difficulties  of  the 
descent — that  she  was  to  be  inflicted  upon  him 
'—he  stoutly  inclined  to  rebel,  and  made  every 
excuse  and  remonstrance  that  it  was  possible 
for  man  to  make  to  escape  the  burden.  But  in 
vain.  Miss  Biddy  stuck  to  his  skirts  as  perti- 
naciously as  a  bur,  and  finding  nothing  could 
shake  her  off*,  he  was  fain,  with  a  heavy  heart, 
to  set  forwards  in  her  company,  attended  by 
Gregory, — ^both  in  obvious  alarm  for  their  own 
necks  at  every  step  they  took,  and  wholly  re- 
gardless of  the  safety  of  Miss  Biddy's. 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  22S 

To  recount  Miss  Biddy's  freaks  and  fears, 
and  follies  and  fancies,  during  this  disastrous 
descent,  or  the  sufferings  of  the  unlucky  Peer, 
under  the  grievous  burden  of  herself  and  her 
nonsense — since  no  description  can  convey  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  extent  of  either — would  be 
vain.  While  internally  quaking  for  his  own 
safety,  and  exerting,  in  a  state  of  the  most  pain- 
ful tension,  the  whole  faculties  of  his  mind,  soul 
and  strength — ^his  eyes,  hands,  knees,  and  heels, 
in  order  to  preserve  his  own  equilibrium  on  the 
mule''s  back,  and  the  mule  itself  erect  on  its  four 
legs — his  attention  was  every  moment  claimed 
by  Miss  Biddy's  shrieks  and  exclamations — so 
shrill  and  piercing,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
disregard  them — while  to  make  the  matter  worse 
— as  that  hopeful  sprig,  young  Blossom,  had 
taken  the  only  guide  his  party  had  brought,  up 
the  mountain  with  him,  the  whole  services  of  Lord 
Lumbercourfs  guide,  which  ought  to  have  been 
directed  entirely  to  himself,  were  monopolized  by 
Miss  Biddy  and  her  mule — which  she  durst  not 
ride,  so  that  he  had  to  lead  it — as  well  as  Miss 
Biddy  herself;  and  though  not  famed  for  docility. 


g£4  THE     MONTANVERT 

the  mule  proved  by  much  the  most  manageable, 
and  indeed  reasonable,  animal  of  the  two. 

In  vain  did  she  talk  to  the  guide,  and  in  vain 
did  the  guide  talk  to  her — it  was  impossible  for 
either  party  to  comprehend  the  other — for  Miss 
Biddy's  French  was  of  a  description  which  could 
only  be  interpreted  at  the  ^Haccademy'  where  she 
was  'Hedicated? — and  bitter  were  her  complaints 
of  the  guide's  stoopidity,  '  who,'  she  said, 
'couldn't  understand  jpoor  (pure)  French  at  all — 
and  could  talk  nothing  himself  but  his  own  pat- 
tens.'' Now  his  'pattens,''  as  she  termed  the 
patois  of  the  peasants  of  Chamouni — ^happens  to 
be  very  good  French — wonderfully  so,  consider- 
ing their  remote,  mountainous,  and  alien  situation. 
Indeed,  it  is  singular,  that  while  the  most  refined 
Parisian  can  easily  converse  with  these  intelligent 
Savoyards — ^he  can  neither  understand,  nor  be 
understood  by  a  great  part  of  his  own  country- 
men— ^particularly  those  of  Provence  and  Lan- 
guedoc,  where  the  remains  of  the  Langue  d''  Oc, 
the  ancient  language  of  the  Troubadours,  still 
continues  to  form  the  common  dialect  of  the 
peasantry. 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  225 

Not  one  step  could  Miss  Biddy  move 
without  vociferating  '  O  Lord  !  my  Lard !  I 
can't  cross  this  'ere  vater  ! — My  Lard!  my  Lard! 
I  niver  shall  get  down  that  rock.  O  Law ! 
them  briars  ! — O  Lord  !  I  shall  be  killed. — O 
Lord !  I  shall  fall  down  'ere  ! — O  Law  !  only 
look  at  me — my  Lard !  I  can't  get  over  'ere  my 
Lard !'  Then  she  saw  a  shepherd's  dog  at  a 
distance,  which  she  was  sure  '  Vas  a  volf.' — 
And  anon  she  spied  a  shepherd,  sheltering 
himself  under  a  projecting  rock  below  them, 
who  she  was  positive  was  '  a  Banditti,'  and  she 
*  vouldn't  go  near  him.'  But  as  the  guide  said 
a  heavy  shower  was  coming  over  the  mountains, 
Lord  Lumbercourt  having  warned  her  of  it, 
left  her  to  her  freaks,  and  sought  to  share  the 
shepherd's  shelter.  Before  he  reached  it,  how- 
ever, the  sky  darkened,  the  thunder  pealed 
through  the  sky,  the  lightning  flashed.  Miss 
Biddy  screamed,  which  frightened  Lord  Lum- 
bercourt's  mule; — the  mule  kicked — which 
frightened  Lord  Lumbercourt — his  Lordship 
nearly  tumbled  off* — and  was  fain  to  dismount ; 
the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  and  poor  Miss 

VOL.   I.  Q 


226  THE    MONTANVERT 

Biddy  was  thoroughly  soused.     Yet  no  entrea- 
ties could  induce  her  to  go  near  '  that  banditti,' 
till  she  saw  Lord  Lumbercourt  very  quietly  creep 
in  beside  him,  when  she  hastened  to  join  him 
with  her  dripping  garments.     The  storm  though 
violent,  was  short.     In  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  clouds  rolled  away,'  the  thunder  ceased,  and 
the  sun  shone  out.     Chilled  with  the  wet — stiff 
with  the  mule — and  benumbed  with  his  con- 
strained  posture  under   the   rock — poor   Lord 
Lumbercourt    crawled   out    and   attempted   to 
walk; — consequently  he   became  a  more   easy 
prey  to  Miss  Biddy — who  fastened  upon  him 
still   more  affectionately — adhered  to  him  still 
more  closely — and  persisted,  in  spite  of  Lord 
Lumbercourfs  fretful  assurances  to  the  contrary, 
in  believing  that  he  had  chosen  to  walk  solely 
out  of  courtesy  to  her,  and  love  of  her  company. 
As  the  idea — 'He  may  be  in  love  with  me, 
who  knows  ?'' — crossed  her  mind.   Miss  Biddy 
simpered,  and  smiled,    and   then  sighed, — and 
threw  languishing  looks  at  the  shivering  Peer  ; 
and    thoughts,    tender    and    romantic — and    a 
regular  fit  of  the  sentimental  now  came  over 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  2^7 

her;  and  she  began  to  talk  much  of  the  '  Holpes/ 
and  how  she  had  had  no  hidear  they  were 
so  igh,  so  much  igher  they  were  than  Box  ill — 
which  she  had  seen  when  going  to  Brighton.' 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  they  passed  an  open- 
ing like  a  cave,  shaded  by  a  horizontal  tree,  that 
wreathed  its  old  roots  into  the  rocks  just  above, 
and  spread  its  arms  most  picturesquely  over  the 
entrance,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ground.  This 
struck  Miss  Biddy's  romantic  mood.  She  was 
certain  this  cavern  was  something  '  wery  mys- 
terious— like  the  Castle  of  Hudolpho; — and  only 
look,  my  Lard  /'  she  continued,  '  I  purtest !  vat  a 
Jlnhoneyman  my  Lard ! — Vy  it's  rained  black 
'ere  ! — Look  at  the  queer  black  drops,  my 
Lard! — I  vill  go  in  and  hexplore — I  love 
heooploring.''  And  while  Lord  Lumbercourt 
was  remonstrating  with  her  on  the  folly  of 
standing  in  wet  clothes  to  grope  in  dark  holes, 
she  stooped  under  the  branches  of  the  tree  and 
darted  in  with  a  silly  affected  giggle — no  doubt 
expecting  him  to  follow  her.  If  the  guide  had 
not  been  far  in  advance  leading  the  mules,  and 
Gregory  with  him,  his  Lordship  would  certainly 

Gl2 


^28  THE    MONTANVERT 

have  left  her  to  *^hexplore'  the  cave  as  long  as 
she  liked — but  not  being  able  to  resolve  to  leave 
any  woman  quite  alone,  on  a  wild  mountain's 
side,  he  waited  for  her  at  the  entrance,  internally 
execrating  her  folly  and  his  own  ;  alps,  caves, 
storms,  mules,  guides,  excursions,  Chamouni, — • 
and  even  '  Gregory'  himself. 

In  this  unhallowed  mental  occupation,  his  ears 
were  assailed  by  a  growl,  followed  by  a  piercing 
shriek,  and  at  the  same  moment  Miss  Biddy, 
crying  out  '  a  bear  !  a  bear  !'  bolted  out  of  the 
cavern,  driving  her  head  and  extended  arms  right 
against  his  body,  with  such  force  as  completely 
to  overset  him ;  and  tumbling  over  him,  both  of 
them  rolled  down  the  steep  mountain's  side 
together,  until  their  progress  was  at  last  stopped 
by  the  activity  of  the  guide,  who  flew  back  to 
their  assistance.  But  Miss  Biddy,  who  had 
gone  into  the  grotto  in  virgin  white,  rushed  out 
as  black  as  a  chimney  sweeper — for  the  cave  was 
used  as  a  receptacle  for  charcoal,  which  the 
peasants  make  on  the  mountain  in  summer;  and 
as  it  was  quite  dark.  Miss  Biddy,  in  'hexploring,' 
as  she  called  it,  or  rather   groping   her  way, 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  2^9 

tumbled  over  a  piece  of  wood,  and  rolled  about 
amongst  the  charcoal,  which  nearly  choked  her, 
and  adhering  to  her  wet  clothes,  beplaistered 
her  white  attire,  her  hat,  face,  hands,  and  hair — 
till  she  was  as  completely  bedaubed  with  soot,  as 
if  she  had  been  '  a  Neger,**  as  she  herself  elegantly 
observed.     The  noise  she  made  roused  a  sleeping 
dog  belonging  to  the  woodmen,  whose  growl  she 
mistook  for  that  of  a  bear,  and  in  her  terror 
she  rushed  out  and  overset  the  unlucky  Lord 
Lumbercourt,  as  we  have  related.     Woefully 
was  the  poor  Peer  bruised,  and  sorely  was  he 
begrimed  in  his  roll  with  Miss  Biddy  down  the 
hill,  for  she  had  communicated  to  him  her  own 
contamination,    without   losing   it   herself: — so 
that  Lord  Lumbercourt's  white  trowsers,  clean 
waistcoat  and  neckcloth,  and  even  his  white  hat, 
his  face  and  hands,  were  daubed  and  blackened  , 
with    soot.       Nothing   could   purify   him,    and 
nothing  could  alter  the  grimy  blackness  of  Miss 
Biddy,  who  had  been  so  engrained  'in  charcoal 
that  there  did  not  remain  on  her  face  one  streak 
of  white,  or  rather  of  its  native  sallow  hue.     It 
was    impossible    to    conceive    a    figure    more 


230  THE    MONTANVEllT 

irresistibly  ludicrous  than  she  presented,  so  that 
even  '  Gregory'  himself — though  his  natural  so- 
lemnity had  previously  been  heightened  by  the 
toils  and  perils  of  the  mountain,  was  unable  to 
contain   himself  at   the   contemplation   of    her 
plight  and  his  master's,  and  burst  into  reitera,ted 
and  almost  extinguishable  peals  of  laughter,  in 
which  the  guide  could  not  refrain  from  joining. 
Miss  Biddy  next  made  bad  worse — for  spying 
a  brook,  she  ran  to  it  and  began  a  hopeless  and 
unsuccessful    attempt    to    wash    her    face   and 
hands.     Any  one  who  has  seen  a  half  washed 
chimney  sweeper,    may  conceive   the   spectacle 
she  exhibited  when  running  about  distractedly 
in  bitter   distress  for  a  towel  or  napkin — the 
black  streams  pouring  down  her  dripping  face, 
she  exclaimed — '  O  my  ridicule !  Tom  has  got 
my  ridicule — what    shall   I    do   for   a  pocket 
handkerchief !' — then  in  despair  drying  herself  at 
last   with  her  blackened   gown,    she  begrimed 
herself  more  completely  than  ever,  and  cut  a 
figure  so  truly  absurd,  that  all  the  peasants  of 
Chamouni   whom  they  met   in   their   progress 
down  the  hill  and  up  the  valley,  followed  them, 


AND    MER   DE    GLACE,  231 

laughing  and  gaping  the  whole  way  to  the  inn, 
where  they  arrived  attended  by  a  still  increasing 
cortege,  to  afford  a  spectacle  of  mirth  to  the 
strangers  assembled  there. 

Leaving  this  happy  pair,  we  must  now 
return  to  the  party  who  had  continued  their 
ascent  of  the  steep  mountain's  woody  sides. 
Miss  St.  Clair  was  the  first  who  gained  the 
summit,  when  she  sat  down  to  rest  in  the 
Hospice  or  Hermitage,  or  by  whatever  name 
the  house  of  shelter  is  called.  Upon  the  table 
lay  the  Album,  in  which  every  visitor  inserts 
his  name,  the  date  of  his  visit,  or  whatever 
effusion  or  inscription  his  fancy  prompts.  As 
she  turned  it  over,  what  was  her  surprise  to 
see,  in  the  very  last  page,  and  dated  only  two 
days  before,  the  hand  writing  of  Horace  Lindsay ! 
She  could  not  be  mistaken.  She  knew  the 
characters  too  well  to  be  deceived.  The 
lines,  which  she  read  again  and  again,  and  at 
last  copied,  though  the  reader  will  probably 
think  they  were  little  worth  the  pains,  were 
as  follows : — 


232  THE    MONTANVERT 

LINES 
WRITTEN    IN    THE    ALBUM    AT    MONTANVERT. 
I. 

Ye  Alps  !  whose  hoary  heights  sublime, 

Coeval  with  the  birth  of  time. 

Have  stood  through  thousand  winters'  roar. 

And  still  shall  stand  till  time's  no  more — 

Seen  countless  generations  pass 

Like  falling  leaves — like  withering  grass — 

Ye — never,  from  your  thrones  on  high 

Have  seen  one  wretch  so  lost  as  I. 

II. 
Bereft  of  hope,  devoid  of  fear, 
In  living  death  I  linger  here — 
Religion  bids  me  bear  my  fate — 
Honour — ordains  the  doom  I  hate. 
Pilgrim  on  hfe's  benighted  road  ! 
Might  man  lay  down  life's  weary  load, 
Soon  should  these  plaints — these  sorrows  cease- 
This  bursting  heart  soon  rest  in  peace  ! 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  2SS 

III. 
Some  mortal  sorrows  melt  away 
Like  snow-flakes  in  the  beam  of  day — 
Mine — like  yon  glacier''s  frozen  field — 
To  joy's  bright  sun  can  never  yield. 
My  heart — my  hopes  as  icy  cold 
My  doom — in  youth,  already  told ; 
Would — like  its  ice — I  felt  no  more — 
Would  that  life's  '  feverish  dream"*  were  o'er  ! 

IV. 

Possessed  of  all  man  loves  to  claim 

Of  youth,  wealth,  honours — ancient  name — 

Why  should  my  soul  grief  only  prove. 

Grief,  sprung  from  heaven's  best  blessing — love  ? 

Sole  source  of  bliss — to  me  of  woe — 

In  draughts  how  sweet,  thy  poisons  flow  ! 

But  Fate  no  new  distress  can  bring 

Life  has  no  charm — and  death  no  sting. 

Caroline  read  these  despairing  lines  with 
indescribable  amazement.  That  he  was  all  at 
once  the  most  miserable  wretch  under  the  sun — 
that  love  was  the  source  of  all  his  misery — that 


234  THE    MONTANVERT 

honour  stood  in  his  way — that  in  the  little 
fortnight  which  had  elapsed  since  she  had  seen 
him,  his  '  doom  was  already  told,'  and  '  his 
hopes  turned  icy  cold,' — and  that  nothing 
but  religion  prevented  his  blowing  his  brains 
out — were  to  her  facts  so  inconceivable,  that  she 
could  by  no  means  whatever  understand  them. 
For  if  Horace  Lindsay,  the  admired,  the  ac- 
complished, the  courted  Horace  Lindsay — who 
certainly  was,  as  he  himself  said  in  these  lines : — 

Possessed  of  all  man  loves  to  claim, 

Of  3'^outb,  wealth,  honours,  ancient  name, — 

and  of  every  thing  else  that  was  desirable — if  he 
had  fallen  in  love  of  a  sudden,  what  in  the 
world  prevented  his  marrying  ?  It  was  very 
unlikely  any  body  would  refuse  him.  And  she 
had  gathered,  from  the  conversation  she  had 
heard  at  Martigny,  that  there  was  nothing  to 
prevent  his  marrying  whenever  he  pleased,  and 
that  he  had  then  no  attachment  nor  engagement 
of  any  sort ;  and  moreover,  that  it  was  his 
Father's  most  especial  desire  to  see  him  married. 
Yet  Caroline  well  knew  that  Horace  Lindsay 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  2S5 

was  not  one  of  those  sorrowful  sonneteers  who 
pour  forth  imaginary  woes  in  rhyme.  She 
knew  that  verse  to  him  was  but  the  vent  of 
strong  real  feeling — by  which,  wholly  careless  of 
the  mode  of  its  expression,  he  sought  its  relief: 
and  therefore  that  tone  of  deep  despondency — 
those  complaints  of  hopeless  love  and  opposing 
honour,  which  breathed  through  these  verses — 
filled  her  with  quite  as  much  astonishment  and 
conjecture,  as  the  very  unaccountable  fact  of  his 
being  upon  the  Montanvert,  to  write  verses  at  all, 
when  he  had  himself  stated  that  he  was 
gone  to  England.  Why  he  should  be  so  mise- 
rable now,  when  so  very  lately  he  had  seemed 
so  happy, — why  he  should  be  in  love,  and  yet 
not  going  to  be  married — and  why  he  should 
actually  be  here,  when  he  had  said  he  was  there — 
she  could  by  no  means  discover  or  understand. 
Lost  in  thought,  she  was  unconsciously  reading 
these  inexpHcable  lines  over  for  about  the 
twentieth  time,  when  '  Maister  Andra"*  Mac- 
gregor,'  the  Scotchman,  entered,  and  after 
'  booing,'  and  paying  his  compliments,  requested 
to  look  at '  the  beuke.' — Having  very  deliberately 


2S6  THE    MONTANVERT 

read  the  lines  from  beginning  to  end,  he  laid 
them  down  with  an  air  of  the  most  superlative 
contempt,  exclaiming, — 

'  Lord  sake  !  sic  nonsense  !  what  a  puir  fule 
body  he  maun  be — ^yon  !  Aa,  but  if  s  a  pity 
the  callant  hadna**  something  mair  to  fash  himsel' 
wi' — ^forbye  sic  willy  wally  clashery.' 

'  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Macgregor,  you  have  no 
soul  for  poetry,"*  said  Miss  St.  Clair,  laughing. 

'  Weugh !  powitry  !  pottery  mair  like- — its  a^ 
yeVe  ordinar**  ware,  yon' — ^now't  but  pipe  clay — 
pipe,  pipe,  pipe — ^what  gude  will  piping  do  a 
body  ?     I  wadna'  gie'  a  bawbee  for  a  firlit  o't.' 

The  entrance  of  Colonel  Cleveland  and 
Mademoiselle  Delemont,  followed  by  that  of 
strawberries  -and  cream,  put  an  end  to  Mr. 
Macgregor's  strictures.  When  the  repast  was 
ended,  and  the  short  but  heavy  shower — 
which  brought  such  lamentable  consequences 
to  Lord  Lumbercourt  and  Miss  Biddy  lower 
down  the  mountain — ^had  passed  away,  they  all 
descended  to  the  Mer  de  Glace. 

Perhaps  the  term  *  mer,"*  tends  to  give  a  very 
false  impressi  ^n  of  this  extraordinary  spectacle, 


AND    MER'DE    GLACE.  237 

and  even  to  create  a  feeling  of  dissappoint- 
ment  when  it  is  first  seen,  from  the  imagination 
having,  in  consequence  of  that  expression, 
drawn  a  picture  so  different  to  the  reahty. 
The  Mer  de  Glace  bears  no  resemblance 
to  a  sea.  It  wants  the  breadth  and  level 
surface  that  distinguish  the  ocean.  Sunk  in  one 
of  those  deep  chffs  or  ravines  which  intercept 
the  Alps,  its  comparative  narrowness — its 
extreme  length,  and  its  rapid  declivity — give 
it  more  the  effect  of  a  wide,  raging,  devastating 
torrent — which  in  the  very  fury  of  its  downward 
course,  and  tossing  its  wild  waves  on  high,  had 
been  in  one  moment  and  for  ever,  congealed  by 
the  power  of  frost.  It  looks  as  if  some  enchanter 
had  crystallized  it  with  his  icy  wand.  Its 
rough  and  stormy  waves,  and  the  deep  wide 
gulfs  which  yawn  between  them,  look  still  more 
tremendous  when  you  venture  upon  them ; — and 
the  vast  extent  of  this  extraordinary  valley  of 
ice,  with  its  heaved  and  ruggea' surface  stretching 
far  upward  into  the  inaccessible  don.es  and  '  pala- 
ces of  the  Alps'* — and  downwards  even  to  the  rich 
verdure  of  Chamouni,  appears  far  more  imposing 


238  THE    MONTANVERT 

and  sublime  when  thus  standing  upon  its  icy 
billows,  or  on  the  rocks  of  granite  that  are  strewed 
over  its  surface — than  when  viewed  from  the  mar- 
gin. Attended  by  an  active  guide.  Miss  St.  Clair 
traversed  a  great  extent  of  this  vast  world  of  ice 
— passing  with  a  lightness,  an  agility,  and  a  fear- 
lessness, from  one  slippery  wave  to  another — 
(rendered  unusually  slippery  by  the  recent  rain) — 
that  excited  the  terror  of  her  distant  companions, 
and  the  delight  and  astonishment  of  the  guides, 
who  all  declared  she  could  go — with  far  more  ease 
and  security  than  most  of  the  gentlemen  who 
undertook  it — to  the  Jardin,  a, distant  and  difficult 
expedition,  far  beyond  the  Montanvert,  in  a 
spot  among  the  high  recesses  of  the  Alps,  famous 
for  its  rare  botanical  treasures. 

Nothing  tends  to  give  a  more  striking  idea 
of  the  stupendous  height  of  Mont  Blanc,  than, 
after  ascending  three  thousand  feet  to  the 
summit  of  the  Montanvert,  to  see  that  it  still 
towers  as  high  above  you  as  ever — while  the 
hoary  heads  of  the  Breven,  and  all  the  sur- 
rounding mountains,  though  above  the  line  of 
eternal  snow,   look  like  the  dwarfs   that   bow 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  ^39 

round  his  mighty  throne  The  four  'Aiguilles'' 
which  shoot  their  tali  pointed  pyramids  of  rock 
into  the  skies  far  beyond  the  Montanvert,  have 
a  peculiarly  grand  effect  viewed  from  the  Mer 
de  Glace — ^particularly  the  Aiguille  du  Dru, 
and  the  Aiguille  du  Midi. 

The  party  returned  to  Chamouni  by  the 
route  of  the  '  Chapeau' — and  stopped  to  gaze 
upon  the  last  sublime  view  of  the  Mer  de  Glace, 
and  to  contemplate,  at  intervals,  the  fall  of  the 
tremendous  masses  of  ice  from  the  glacier, 
which,  crashing  into  thousands  of  pieces, 
reverberated  among  the  echoes  of  the  Alps, 
like  the  roar  of  thundering  cannon.* 


*  Glaciers  have  been  most  inaccurately  termed  '  moun- 
tains of  ice.' — They  are   on  the  contrary  more  properly 

vallies  of  ice They  are  uniformly  found  in  the  deep  vallies 

or  ravines  between  the  mountains — and  m  the  deep  hollow 
cliffs  in  the  sides  of  the  mountains  themselves — They  have 
been  obviously  formed  by  the  immense  avalanches  of  snow 
which  fall  in  spring  and  summer  from  the  precipices  and 
sides  of  the  bordering  mountains,  into  the  ravines  below. 
The  percolation  of  the  melted  water  through  the  snow, 
which  is  again  frozen  in  that  state,  renders  it  an  entire 
mass  of  ice.-^As  the  enormous  heaps  which  fall,  are  not 


240  THE    MONTANVERT 

When  they  reached  the  inn,  they  heard  the 
dismal  adventure  of  Lord  Lumbercourt  and  the 


nearly  melted  before  the  close  of  summer,  and  the  winter's 
snow  still  increases  the  mass — which  the  avalanches  of  the 
succeeding  summer  again  continue  to  augment — it  is  not 
wonderful  that  in  the  course  of  ages,  the  enormous  vaUies 
of  ice,  we  now  behold,  many  of  which  are  six  or  seven 
leagues  in  length,  and  of  ijnknown  and  incalculable  depth, 
— (which  however  in  some  places  has  been  ascertained  by 
the  fissures  to  be  upwards  of  three  thousand  feet)  should 
have  been  accumulated.  The  surface  of  the  glaciers  of  the 
Alps,  fi*om  the  Tyrol  to  Mont  Blanc,  is  now  computed  to 
exceed  twelve  hundred  square  miles.  As  the  declivity 
of  these  vallies  or  ravines  which  the  glaciers  occupy,  is 
always  rapid,  their  lower  extremity  pressed  onward  by  the 
enormous  weight  of  ice  above,  has  always  a  tendency  to 
descend  lower  and  lower  into  the  larger  vaUey  or  plain,  in 
which  the  ravine  terminates. — But  in  proportion  as  the 
glacier  advances  to  lower  and  warmer  regions — the  dissolu- 
tion of  ice  becomes  more  rapid — consequently  during  hot 
summers,  and  often  even  during  those  winters  in  which 
the  fall  of  snow  has  been  trifling,  they  are  frequently 
known  to  recede — that  is  the  ice  is  dissolved  faster  than  it  is 
pushed  forward.  In  severer  years,  on  the  contrary,  their 
progress  is  often  alarmingly  rapid — In  winter,  while  they 
are  bound  by  frost,  they  are  of  course  quite  stationary — and 
the  stream  of  water  which  in  summer  flows  from  their  base, 
is  then  either  completely  stopped  or  dwindled  to  a  very 
small  runlet. 


AND    MER    DE    GLACE.  241 

fair  Miss  Biddy  Blossom — now  fair  once  more, 
though  it  was  not  without  severe  scrubbing  and 
hard  labour,  that  she  had  been  transformed  from 
the  complete  blackamoor  state  in  which  she 
entered  the  inn,  to  her  native  sallow  hue. 


VOL.    I. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MONT  BLANC. 


Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains, 
They  crowned  him  long  ago, 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 
With  a  diadem  of  snow. 

Lord  Byrok. 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming ! 

Old  Ballad. 

'Twas  I — ^but  *tis  not  I. 

Shakspeare. 


As  usual,  all  the  party  at  the  inn  sat  down 
to  dinner  at  the  Table  d'  Hote ;  and  as  usual, 
every  body  was  eager  to  recount  his  own  adven- 
tures and  exploits,  and  hair-breadth  escapes  of 
the    morning — excepting    Lord    Lumbercourt, 


MONT    BLANC.  <^4S 

who  did  not  seem  at  all  anxious  to  boast  of  his ; 
but  as  no  man  was  willing  to  listen  to  those  of 
his  neighbour,   or  at  least  listened  impatiently 
without  attending,  only  watching  the  opportunity 
to  break  in  with  his  own  story, — :the  pleasure  of 
being  the  hero  of  his  own  tale  to  sympathising 
auditors,   could  not  be  enjoyed.     Consequently 
the  interesting  subject  of  self  was  at  length  aban- 
doned, and  then  the  conversation  turned  upon 
the  enterprising  Englishman   and   his  thirteen 
attendants,  who  had  been  descried  in  the  morning 
working  their  laborious  way  towards  the  Aiguille 
du  Midi,  and  were  still  perilously  braving  the 
dangers  of  the  desperate  ascent.      They  were 
seen  cutting  steps  in  the  precipices  of  ice  with 
their  hatchets,  and  crossing  the  unknown  depth 
of   the    tremendous    fissures,    by   means   of  a 
bridge  formed  by  a  ladder  laid  across.     When 
these  horrid    chasms  were    too    wide  to    pass 
in    this    manner,    they   descended   into   them, 
and  climbed  up  their  opposite  sides  by  their 
ladders ;  and   when  too  deep  for  their  ladders, 
they  let  themselves  down  and  hoisted  themselves 
up  again  by  ropes.     The  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc 
R  2 


244  MONT    BLANC, 

had  not  been  accomplished  for  many  years. 
The  last  attempt  had  terminated  fatally* — and 
it  was  generally  thought,  from  the  unusual 
quantity  of  snow  which  had  fallen  the  preceding 
winter,  that  the  ascent  was  at  present  wholly 
impracticable — that  the  lives  of  the  party  were 
exposed  to  the  most  imminent  danger,  and  that 
*  Milor'  would  be  at  last  obliged  to  abandon  the 
enterprise. 

'  He  wont  like  that,**  said  Caroline,  involun- 
tarily— for    from    the    moment    she   had    seen 


*  Three  of  the  guides  were  killed  in  this  unfortunate 
expedition,  near  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  by  a  vast  sheet 
or  shelf  of  snow  giving  way  under  their  feet,  and  sliding 
with  them  down  the  mountain  with  irresistible  velocity — 
precipitating  them  along  with  it,  into  a  yawning  and  un- 
fathomable fissure  of  the  ice  in  its  side,  and  burying  them 
under  its  overwhelming  mass ; — so  that  in  the  passage  of 
one  moment,  they  were  swept  away  from  the  face  of  the 
earth — from  life  m  its  fullest  vigour,  to  death  and  ever- 
lasting burial.  Their  tomb  was  sealed,  and  never  can  be 
opened  tiU  the  dissolution  of  the  earth.  Thousands  of 
years  after,  their  bodies  will  stiU  lie  unchanged  in  their  icy 
sepulchre.  That  preservation  of  the  mortal  mould,  for 
which  Kings  and  Princes  expend  so  much  labour  and 
treasure,  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  these  poor  shepherds. 


MONT    BLANC.  245 

Mr.  Lindsay's  hand-writing  in  the  album  of 
Montanvert,  she  had  felt  persuaded  that  this 
assailant  of  mountains  was  himself. 

Among  the  many  plans  that  were  proposed 
for  the  next  day,  Caroline  strongly  voted  for  the 
ascent  of  the  Breven,  which,  being  exactly  oppo- 
site to  Mont  Blanc,  and  divided  from  it  only 
by  the  narrow  vale  of  Chamouni,  is  the  station 
invariably  chosen  for  surveying  the  mountain. 
This  expedition  was  accordingly  resolved  upon, 
and  next  morning,  after  scaling  a  considerable 
height  up  the  Breven,  they  saw  the  opposite 
party  on  Mont  Blanc,  like  black  emmets  on 
its  white  surface,  not  yet  at  the  top,  but 
struggling  dauntlessly  with  their  increasing 
difficulties  and  dangers,  and  labouring  at  the 
last  dreadful  pass  of  the  Mont  M audit. 
Looking  attentively  at  them  through  a  prospect 
glass,  Caroline  distinctly  discovered  Mr.  Lindsay. 
No  sooner  had  she  communicated  this  discovery 
to  her  companions,  and  Colonel  Cleveland  had 
convinced  himself  by  the  evidence  of  his  own 
eyes,  of  Mr.  Lindsay's  identity,  than  he  began 
to  make  the   most  extravagant  flourishes   with 


246  MONT    BLANC. 

a  long  white  table  cloth,  in  which  their  cold 
provisions  had  been  wrapped — shouting,  halloo- 
ing, and  blowing  the  mountain  horn  of  the 
guides,  most  vociferously,  until  he  succeeded 
in  attracting  Horace  Lindsay's  attention,  and 
they  saw  him  gazing  at  them  in  turn  through 
a  glass.  He  looked  at  them  long — and  after 
standing  still  for  a  few  moments,  made  signs  of 
recognition — then  turned,  but  scarcely  had  he 
re-commenced  the  ascent,  before  his  feet  slipped 
and  he  disappeared  into  a  fissure  of  the  ice. 
The  terror  of  the  opposite  party  was  extreme ; 
but  it  was,  however,  shortly  relieved  by  his 
re-appearance  in  apparent  safety — and  they 
watched  him  from  their  station  at  the  rude 
chalet  on  the  Breven's  side,  until  they  actually 
beheld  him  gain  the  utmost  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain— when  the  lateness  of  the  hour  obliged 
them  reluctantly  to  descend. 

This  was  the  third  night  he  had  lain  upon 
the  icy  side  of  Mont  Blanc.  No  adventurer 
had  ever  remained  upon  it  so  long  before,  and 
the  intense  cold  he  must  have  to  endure,  the 
long  continuance  of  such  exhausting  exertions, 


MONT    BLANC.  247 

and  the  grave  looks  of  the  old  guides  and 
peasants  of  Chamouni,  who  shook  their  heads 
in  disapprobation  of  the  rashness  [of  such 
obstinate  perseverance,  did  not  tend  to  allay 
the  anxiety  his  friends  entertained  for  his 
safety.  His  enterprise  had,  however,  at  last 
been  crowned  with  success.  At  sunset,  a  pea- 
sant stationed  on  the  Breven  to  watch  their 
progress,  saw  them  leave  the  highest  of  the 
icy  pinnacles  of  the  mountain — and  as  the  nights 
were  moonUght,  it  was  hoped,  if  their  strength 
held  out,  they  might  be  enabled  to  descend  to 
some  spot,  in  which  the  inclemency  of  the  cold 
would  not  seriously  injure  them. 

The  person  who  seemed  to  hear  of  Mr. 
Lindsay's  proceedings  with  the  most  uneasiness, 
and  reprobated  the  rashness  of  the  undertaking 
with  the  most  severity,  was  Lord  Lumbercourt. 
The  extreme  disturbance  and  restlessness  he 
betrayed,  during  the  discussion  of  this  endless 
subject  of  conversation — the  peevishness  with 
which,  when  compelled  to  speak  of  it  himself, 
he  abused  the  folly  and  madness  of  the  attempt, 
and  the  sincerity  with  which  he  seemed  to  think 


£48  MONT    BLANC. 

Lindsay  richly  deserved  to  break  his  neck, 
were  obviously  caused  by  the  interest  he  felt, for 
his  cousin  ;  because  they  had  never  been  shown 
till  it  was  known  who  the  adventurous  hero  was 
that  had  ^attempted  an  exploit  so  perilous. 

Next  morning,  Mr.  Lindsay  was  still  seen 
foremost  in  the  descent  of  the  mountain.  A 
fresh  detachment  of  guides,  carrying  wine  and 
provisions,  went  up  to  meet  and  relieve  them  ; 
for  many  of  the  men,  by  this  time,  were  left  far 
behind,  apparently  overcome  with  fatigue. 

As  Mrs.  Cleveland  and  Lord  Lumber- 
court  had  not  been  able  to  make  any  of  these 
mountainous  excursions,  and  had  spent  the 
preceding  day  in  driving  in  a  char  a  banc  to 
the  upper  end  of  the  valley — and  in  visiting 
such  of  the  glaciers  and  views  as  were  accessible 
to  them — the  rest  of  the  party  accompanied 
them,  this  morning,  to  the  Arveiron,  perhaps 
one  of  the  most  sublime  spectacles  of  nature. 
Ascending  gradually  through  a  wood  of  pine 
and  larch  trees,  which,  like  a  verdant  screen, 
conceals  the  scene  you  arc  approaching,  it 
suddenly  bursts  upon  you,  and  you  behold  the 


MONT    BLANC.  249 

stupendous  towers  and  pinnacles,  and  icy  pyra- 
mids of  the  great  Glacier  des  Bois,  which  forms 
the  lower  part  of  the  Mer  de  Glace,  flanked 
by  tremendous  peaked  and  naked  rocks,  and 
reaching  far  up  into  the  wild  and  impenetrable 
recesses  of  the  Alps.  From  its  utmost  summit, 
which  is  many  thousand  feet  above  the  vale 
of  Chamouni,  shoots  up  into  heaven  the  tre- 
mendous Aiguille  de  Dru,  one  solid  spiral 
pyramid  of  naked  granite — ^four  thousand  feet 
in  height.  Inaccessible  wholly,  even  to  the 
storm-driven  eagle,  its  smooth  and  naked  sides, 
untouched  from  creation,  never  have  afforded 
footing  to  any  living  thing.  No  summit  in  the 
whole  range  of  the  mighty  Alps,  is  so  strik- 
ing and  so  isolated  as  this  wonderful  monument 
of  nature.  Extending  far  to  the  right  and  left 
behind  it,  rises  the  Aiguille  Vert,  not  much 
inferior  to  the  giant  summit  of  Mont  Blanc  itself 
in  height. 

Immediately  before  your  eyes,  a  sight  still 
more  sublime  cliains  the  soul  in  wonder  and 
admiration.  At  the  base  of  this  immense  glacier 
yawns  a  tremendous  cavern  of  ice,  hollowed  out 


250  MONT    BLANC. 

by  the  furious  source  of  the  Arveiron,  and  sup- 
ported by  columns  and  buttresses  of  ice,  through 
which  its  struggling  waters  work  out  their 
impetuous  way,  bursting  down  into  the  valley,  at 
once  a  mighty  foaming  torrent.  The  vast  vault 
or  dome  of  ice  which  the  raging  waters  form 
above  them,  before  their  fury  has  worn  away  the 
props  and  pillars  that  support  it — and  which 
their  own  force  has  made — often  reaches  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  and  its  concus- 
sion, at  last,  when  it  falls,  is  heard  and  felt 
through  the  valley  like  the  crash  of  overthrown 
mountains.  Instances  have  been  known  of  men — 
led  by  curiosity  too  near  this  awful  spectacle- 
being  swallowed  up  in  a  moment  by  the  masses 
of  ice  which  are  furiously  swept  onward.  Con- 
tinually, as  they  stood  viewing  it,  huge  rocks 
of  ice  were  disengaged  from  its  lofty  cavity, 
and  fell  with  awful  reverberation. 

Thus  the  Arveiron  receives  its  birth  from 
that  vast  and  still  Leviathan  of  ice,  which  lies 
immoveably  stretched  along  this  tremendous 
chasm  of  the  Alps — like  a  lining  son  bursting 
forth  from  the  cold  womb  of  a  dead  parent. 


MONT    BLANC.  251 

After  they  had,  with  Lord  Lumbercourt 
and  Mrs.  Cleveland,  enjoyed  a  visit  to  the 
Chopeau,  which  commands  the  only  prospect  of 
the  Mer  de  Glace,  attainable  by  the  weak  or 
the  infirm.  Colonel  Cleveland  and  Miss  St. 
Clair  afterwards  rode  on  mules  up  to  the  Chalet 
de  la  Flessiere,  exactly  opposite  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  from  whence  the  view  of  the  waves,  and 
chasms,  and  rocks  of  that  vast  valley  of  ice,  is 
particularly  sublime — so  also  is  the  long  expanse 
of  Mont  Blanc,  spiked  with  its  'needles'  and 
columns,  and  obelises,  and  pyramids,  and  domes 
of  ice.  Indeed  though  little  visited — the  whole 
of  the  High  Alps  and  the  vale  of  Chamouni 
appear  to  the  most  striking  effect  from  this 
station. 

On  their  return,  they  had  the  gratification  to 
find  that  Mr.  Lindsay  and  his  guides  were 
rapidly  descending  the  mountain — apparently 
making  almost  desperate  effbrts  to  reach  the 
plain  before  night-fall.  After  dinner  a  char  a 
banc  was  sent  by  Colonel  Cle^teland,  at  Miss  St* 
Clair's  sugestion  to  meet  him  at  the  extreme 
point  where  a  char  could  go — and  the   whole 


252  MONT    BLANC. 

party  from  the  hotel,  moved  by  the  spirit  of 
curiosity,  interest,  or  idleness — strolled  out  in 
different  groups  to  meet  the  adventurer.  Miss 
St.  Clair  felt  almost  an  insurmountable  repug- 
nance to  this  walk — a  repugnance  for  which  she 
could  not  account.  But  she  found  that  if  she 
staid  behind.  Lord  Lumbercourt  would  stay  too, 
and  that  she  would  inevitably  have  a  tete  a  tete 
with  his  Lordship,  for  which  she  felt  no  great 
inclination.  She  reflected  too  that  her  absence 
alone  would  have  an  air  of  singularity,  if  not  of 
affectation — not  only  to  all  the  rest  of  the  party, 
but  even  to  Mr.  Lindsay  himself.  Slowly  and  re- 
luctantly therefore  she  did  set  off  with  the  rest 
— but  contrary  to  her  usual  custom  of  being 
far  in  advance,  she  insensibly  lagged  behind, 
and  having  Mile.  Delemont  fast  by  the  arm  on 
one  side,  and  her  faithful  escort.  Lord  Lumberr 
court,  closely  attached  on  the  other,  she  advanced 
to  the  rencounter,  with  feelings  which  she  could 
neither  understand  nor  conceive — and  in  that 
agreeable  predicagment — which  every  one  must 
at  times  have  experienced — of  compelling  herself 
to  talk  upon  any  subject  which  chance  suggests — 


MONT    BLANC.  25S 

when  her  whole  thoughts  and  mind  were  engrossed 
upon  another.  It  was  rather  a  severe  trial  to 
Mr.  Lindsay's  patience  and  spirits,  after  the 
incessant  and  violent  exertions  of  four  days 
and  three  nights  of  incredible  peril  and  hard- 
ship— the  very  moment  his  neck  was  out  of 
jeopardy,  and  his  feet  on  terra  firma,  to  be 
surrounded  with  a  clamorous  crowd — gaped  at 
by  curious  eyes — ^baited  with  idle  questions — ^be- 
sieged with  foolish  congratulations — assailed 
with  a  thousand  '  fears'*  and  '  wonders' — and 
almost  stunned  with  offers  of  assistance — just 
when  assistance  was  no  longer  wanted. 

Certainly  nothing  could  present  a  more 
deplorable  spectacle  than  his  whole  person  and 
attire.  His  hair  was  in  disorder — his  hat  torn 
to  pieces — his  lips  and  cheeks  parched  and 
haggard,  and  entirely  destitute  of  skin — his  eyes 
red  as  fire — and  his  look  '  weary  and  worn."* — 
He  was  almost  crippled  with  pain  and  exhaustion 
— he  was  bent  with  fatigue  and  hardship — his 
dress  was  in  almost  as  many  rents  and  tatters  as 
that  of  '  Mad  Tom,' — and  his  shoes  perfectly 
beggarly.      But  Mr.   Lindsay  was  one  of  '  the 


254  MONT    BLANC. 

aristocracy  of  nature ;'  no  rags  could  alter  his 
noble  mien  and  distinguished  air — the  glance 
of  his  eye,  and  the  very  contour  of  his  face, 
instantly  proclaimed  him  of  high  birth,  consi- 
deration, and  breeding.  Yet  woeful  was  the 
change  from  the  animated,  the  gay,  the  gallant, 
the  fascinating  Horace  Lindsay,  that  had  left 
Lausanne  a  fortnight  before — to  the  battered 
looking  being  that  now  stood  before  them. 

With  evident  symptons  of  impatience,  and 
somewhat  of  determination  in  his  manner,  which 
there  was  no  withstanding,  though  with  perfect 
good  breeding,  he  soon  made  his  way  through  this 
phalanx  of  civility — ^but  when  he  beheld — last 
of  all.  Miss  St.  Clair — he  stood  as  if  petrified — 
his  cheeks  assumed  a  hue  still  more  ghastly-^- 
he  stopped  short,  but  did  not  speak  ;  his  lips, 
indeed,  seemed  to  form  a  few  inarticulate  words 
in  reply  to  her  faint  salutation,  but  it  was 
with  evident  difficulty  and  constraint — and 
finally,  saying  something  in  which  '  fatigue' 
was  alone  intelligible,  he  fairly  turned  away  from 
her  and  from  every  one — threw  himself  into  the 
char  a  banc,  and  was  swiftly  driven  to  the  cottage, 


MONT    BLANC.  ^55 

at  the  door  of  which  the  good  peasants,  his  hosts, 
were  anxiously  awaiting  him. 

Miss  St.  Clair  was  thunderstruck  with  asto- 
nishment. Perhaps  she  was  hurt — perhaps 
she  was  pained — perhaps  even  her  heart  was 
wounded;  but  pride,  woman's  best  support, 
came  to  her  assistance,  and  she  was  certainly 
indignant.  In  vain  she  tormented  herself  with 
conjectures,  as  to  the  cause  of  the  marked  and 
sudden  change  in  his  manners  and  deportment 
towards  her.  She  would  have  given  the  world 
to  have  known  what  it  was — but  the  more  she 
thought  of  it,  the  less  she  could  understand 
or  account  for  it; — and  having  at  length  decided 
that  men  were  inexplicable  beings — that  she 
never  did,  never  could,  and  never  should  under- 
stand them — that  they  were  not  worth  thinking 
about — more  especially  Mr.  Lindsay — because 
nothing  whatever  could  justify  his  change  of 
behaviour  to  her ; — she  very  wisely  resolved  to 
think  of  him  no  more,  and  to  turn  her  thoughts 
to  other  things.     And  although 

Great  actions  are  not  always  true  sons 
Of  great  and  mighty  resolutions, 


256  MONT    BLANC. 

Yet,  as  one  would  not  presume  to  suspect  any 
young  lady  of  making  resolutions  and  not  keep- 
ing them,  we  are  bound  to  believe  that  she  did 
as  she  had  determined. 

Heroes  always  seem  possessed  of  such  super- 
human strength,  that  they  can  undergo  as  much 
as  would  kill  ten  ordinary  men,  and  find  them- 
selves as  well  as  ever  after  their  Herculean 
labours — ^but  Horace  Lindsay,  we  suppose, 
was  not  a  hero,  for  he  found  himself  extremely 
ill;  and  a  severe  attack  of  fever,  which  confined 
him  to  bed,  for  many  days,  in  his  solitary 
cottage,  was  the  fruit  of  his  ascent  of  Mont 
Blanc — an  attempt,  under  the  circumstances, 
about  as  Quixotic  as  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha's 
far-famed  attack  upon  the  windmills. 

Next  morning,  when  Colonel  Cleveland 
visited  him  in  bed,  before  their  departure  from 
Chamouni,  he  was  scarcely  able  to  speak,  or 
even  to  understand  what  he  heard — his  brain 
was  burning,  his  temples  throbbing,  and  his 
pulses  beating — yet,  as  he  did  not  complain, 
said,  mechanically,  that  '  he  was  very  well,**  and 
only  seemed,  as  Colonel  Cleveland  thought,  very 


MONT    BLANC.  257 

sleepy  and  stupified — the  good  Colonel,  who 
was  not  very  skilful  in  observing  the  diag- 
nostics of  diseases,  left  him  in  the  persuasion 
that  he  was  '  extremely  well — considering  ;"' 
while,  in  truth,  a  brain  fever  was  rapidly 
coming  on. 

Lord  Lumbercourt  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  set 
off  to  return  by  the  route  they  had  arrived. 
Colonel  Cleveland,  with  the  two  young  ladies, 
rode  on  mules  to  the  head  of  the  valley,  up  the 
windings  of  the  Arve — saw,  on  their  road,  the 
grand  glaciers  of  Argentiere  and  of  Tour,  and 
left  the  last  habitation  of  Chamouni  at  the  little 
village  of  Tour,  which  is  said,  in  winter,  to  be 
sometimes  literally  buried  under  snow,  and  that 
the  inhabitants  actually  cut  their  covered 
ways,  underneath  it,  from  cottage  to  cottage, 
through  the  white  fleecy  avalanche  thus  fallen 
upon  them  from  the  skies.  They  ascended  the 
steep  and  rugged  path  which  leads  to  the  top  of 
the  Col  de  Balme — that  lofty  height  which  shuts 
out  the  upper  extremity  of  this  happy  valley 
from  the  world.  From  its  summit,  they  beheld 
the  last  view  of  Chamouni, — of  its  rich  verdant 

VOL.  I.  s 


258  MONT    BLANC. 

narrow  vale,  lying  between  the  white  walls  and 
turrets  of  the  icy  Alps, — the  glittering  glaciers 
stretching  down  into  its  green  pastures — ^its 
scattered  cottages  and  villages  spread  amongst 
fruitful  fields  and  gardens; — and  that  grand 
object,  perhaps  the  most  sublime  on  earth — 
Mont  Blanc,  rearing  itself  on  its  gigantic  but- 
tresses of  rock,  its  bare  ribs  of  granite,  and  its 
deep  clefts  filled  with  the  ice  of  ages — piercing 
with  its  aerial  '  needles'  the  blue  vault  of  heaven, 
and  proudly  overlooking,  with  its  hundred  heads, 
the  subject  Alps  and  the  whole  world  at  its  feet. 
Upon  its  hoary  summit,  Winter,  king  of  storms 
and  monarch  of  the  mighty  Alps,  sits  in  all  his 
terrors  to  hold  his  court,  and  the  glaciers  seem 
the  crystal  pillars  of  his  icy  throne.  The  scene 
was  like  enchantment — something  that  Fancy, 
in  her  most  creative  mood,  might  dream  of — ^but 
like  nothing  that  reality  can  present. 

It  was  with  deep  regret,  and  not  without 
casting  many  '  a  longing,  lingering,  look  behind,' 
that  our  travellers,  taking  their  last  farewell 
glance  of  Chamouni,  at  length  left  the  mountain's 
brow,    and   descended   its   steep  sides  through 


MONT    BLANC.  259 

woods  of  gigantic  pine  trees,  more  than  one 
hundred  feet  in  height,  rooted  by  nature — 
amusing  themselves  with  making  snow-balls  by 
the  way,  while  the  intense  heat  of  the  sun 
formed  a  curious  contrast  to  their  benumbed 
fingers,  and  snow  besprinkled  clothes.  They 
stopped  to  rest  their  mules,  and  feast  upon 
strawberries  and  cream,  at  the  chalet  of  Trian. 
Another  long  steep  ascent  to  Forclas,  and  an 
apparently  interminable  descent  of  many  hours, 
led  them  down  to  Martigny  ;  during  which,  the 
richness  and  cultivation,  and  smiling  beauty  of 
the  Valais  far  below  them,  watered  by  the  broad 
Rhone  and  rapid  Drance,  afforded  views  of 
beauty,  which  formed  a  fine  contrast  to  the 
savage  grandeur  and  desolation  of  the  scenes 
they  had  just  quitted. 

The  two  parties,  from  the  opposite  directions, 
on  the  same  day,  reached  Belle-vue — Colonel 
Cleveland's  campagne,  near  Lausanne — to  din- 
ner, without  any  adventure  worthy  of  notice. 


s2 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


SKETCH  TAKING;    OR,   LOVE 
MAKING. 


How  much  a  man's  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviour 
to  love !  Shakspeare. 

O — and  I  forsooth  in  love  ! 
I,  that  have  been  Love's  whip — 
A  very  beadle  to  an  amorous  sigh, 
A  critic — nay  a  night  watch  constable, 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy  ; 
This  whimpled,  wining,  purblind  wayward  boy — . 
This  wicked  elf — this  giant  dwarf  Dan  Cupid. 
Regent  of  love  rhymes — lord  of  folded  arms, 
Th'  anointed  Sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans  I — 
What  I ! — I  love ! — I  sue  ! — I  seek  a  wife ! 
A  woman  that  is  like  a  German  clock, 
Still  a  repairing — ever  out  of  frame, 
And  never  going  right.  Lovers  Labour  Lost. 

Too  old ! — by  heaven !  still  let  the  woman  take 

An  older  than  herself: — so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 

Cry  the  man  mercy ! — Love  him  ! — Take  his  offer ! 

Shakspeare. 


SKETCH  TAKING,  OR  LOVE  MAKING.  g6l 

One  morning,  as  Caroline  St.  Clair  was 
sitting  in  a  sort  of  bower  or  summer  seat,  at  the 
extremity  of  the  beautiful  terrace  at  Belle  Vue, 
overlooking  the  lake, — ^her  whole  soul  occupied 
in  sketching  the  magnificent  prospect  that  lay 
extended  before  her — ^the  light  was  suddenly 
obscured,  and  looking  up  surprised,  she  beheld 
the  opaque  form  of  Lord  Lumbercourt  standing 
directly  before  her — his  back  to  the  view,  and 
his  large  grey  eyes  fixed  with  extraordinary 
seriousness  full  upon  her  face.  She  smiled, 
'  Won't  you  sit  down  my  Lord  ?  I  did  not 
expect' — 

'  You  did  not  expect  such  an  interruption.'' 

'  Such  a  foreground,'  said  Caroline,  laughing, 
'  for  I  was  just  considering  what  I  should  intro- 
duce in  the  foreground  of  my  picture.' 

'  I  fear.  Miss  St.  Clair,  I  have  no  chance  of 
ever  being  in  the  foreground  of  your  picture,'  said 
Lord  Lumbercourt,  sitting  down  close  to  her. 

'  Very  little  certainly  at  present,' said  Caroline, 
colouring,  '  for  I  fancied  that  a  donkey  would 
be  the  most  picturesque  animal — and  I  was  long- 
ing for  one  just  at  the  moment  your  Lordship 


262  SKETCH    TAKING, 

appeared — but  it  is  really  impossible  to  take  or 
mistake  you  for  a  donkey  in  any  respect.' 

'  Then  you  really  don't  think  me  quite  an 
ass  ?'  said  Lord  Lumbercourt, 

'  It  would  be  the  surest  proof  that  I  was  one 
myself,  if  I  did,'  said  Caroline  ;  and  intent  upon 
her  sketch,  she  began  to  talk  upon  the  little 
trifling  ordinary  topics  of  conversation,  which 
usually  come  uppermost,  when  the  mind  is 
occupied  with  another  subject — ^but  all  the 
labour  of  supporting  this  talk  devolved  upon 
herself.  Lord  Lumbercourt  answered  only  in 
short  and  absent  phrases  of  rejoinder  or  assent, 
and  sat  twirling  and  rolling  a  piece  of  drawing 
paper,  with  that  hasty  nervous  trepidation, 
which  marks  great  internal  embarrassment  and 
agitation,  and  which  people  so  often  feel,  when 
they  have  formed  a  determination  to  do  or  say 
something  of  vast  importance,  that  they  know 
not  how  to  set  about. 

'  You  seem  very  uneasy,  my  Lord,'  said 
Caroline,  in  a  tone  of  commiseration,  observing 
him  shifting  about  on  his  seat,  and  changing 
colour,  '  I  am  afraid  you  are  suffering.' 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  26S 

'I  am,  indeed,'  said  Lord  Lumbercourt, 
with  a  sigh. 

'  Indeed  !  and  is  it  in  your  toe  ?' 

'  Hang  the  toe  V  exclaimed  Lord  Lumber- 
court,  hastily. 

^  Is  it  so  bad  .?'  said  Caroline,  quite  tenderly, 
thinking  his  vehemence  arose  from  the  twinge. 

'  It  is  here  f  exclaimed  Lord  Lumbercourt 
emphatically,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart — ^but 
Caroline,  who  was  looking  at  her  drawing, 
mistook  this  motion. 

'  In  your  stomach  ?  the  gout  in  your  sto- 
mach ?""  she  exclaimed,  with  alarm. 

'  Hang  the  gout !  Can  a  man  have  no  other 
complaint  than  that  cursed  gout  ?' 

'  Indeed,'  said  Carohne,  looking  up  asto- 
nished, and  beginning  to  think  the  gout  had  got 
into  his  head,  '  I  did  not  know  you  had  any 
other  complaint,  my  Lord.' 

'  Then  you  are  much  mistaken  !' 

She  looked  still  more  astonished  both  at  his 
words  and  manner. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon.  Forgive  me  for  being 
so  hasty — for  speaking  with  such  abruptness  and 
warmth.' 


264  SKETCH    TAKING, 

'  Not  at  all !  I  can  easily  imagine  how  irri- 
tating the  gout  must' — 

'  It  is  not  the  gout.  Miss  St.  Clair.  Don't 
talk  of  the  gout — forget  it,  I  pray  you.' 

'  I  am  very  glad  you  can  forget  it  I  am 
sure.  It  is  a  sign  it  is  going  off; — ^but  what  then 
is  the  matter,  my  Lord  ? — Bilious,  like  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  .'*' 

« No,  no !' 

'  What  then  ? — is  it  your  head  ?' 

'  It  is  my  heart !' 

'  Is  that  all  ?'  exclaimed  Caroline,  laughing. 

'  Nay,  Miss  St.  Clair,  don't  laugh  at  me, 
at  least.'' 

'  Every  body  will  laugh  at  you,  my  Lord. 
Every  body  laughs  at  complaints  of  the  heart. 
Expect  no  pity.' 

'From  you,  I  did  expect  it,'  said  Lord 
Lumbercourt,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  look  that 
brought  a  blush  over  her  lovely  laughing  face, 
— '  From  you  only  I  wish  it.' 

'  No  body  wishes  to  be  pitied,  I  think,'  said 
Caroline,  looking  confused. 

'  I  do — I  wish  for  your  pity ; — for  pity  is 
akin  to  love.' 


OR  LOVE    MAKING.  265 

'  '  A  Kttle  more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind,**  ' 
perhaps,'  said  Caroline  ;  not  knowing  very  well 
what  she  was  saying. 

'  Kind  !  yes,  you  are  kind  ! — kind  to  all — 
kindness  itself  I     Do  not  be  unkind  only  to  me."* 

Caroline's  blushes  betrayed  her  internal 
embarrassment,  but  rallying  her  spirits,  she 
playfully  said — '  No  !  I  will  be  very  kind  to 
you,  my  Lord  !  for  look  what  I  have  delivered 
you  from  !' — shaking  an  ear- wig  from  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat. 

'  O  Miss  St.  Clair  !  I  wish  you  could  read 
my  heart,  and  see' — 

'  See  all  the  pangs  you  talk  of !'  hastily 
interrupted  Caroline.  '  But  I  have  no  pleasure 
in  seeing  pangs — ^nor  yet  in  hearing  of  them  ; — 
and  the  pangs  of  the  heart  are  nothing  compared 
to  real  pangs — to  the  gout,  for  instance.' 

'  You  speak  from  experience,  1  presume,'  said 
Lord  Lumbercourt,  rather  in  a  tone  of  pique. 

'  Of  the  gout,  my  Lord  .?' 

'  Of  the  heart,  Miss  St.  Clair.' 

'  Then  if  you  think  me  a  sufferer  under 
these    terrible    pangs    of   the   heart,  my  Lord,' 


266  SKETCH    TAKING, 

said  Caroline  laughing,  'at  least  admire  the 
uncomplaining  patience  with  which  I  bear  them.' 

'  Dearest  Miss  St.  Clair  !  I  do  admire — 
adore  you  !' — Caroline  looked  frightened,  and 
was  hastily  attempting  to  effect  her  retreat,  but 
he  detained  her. — '  Nay,  do  not  go  !  do  not  fly 
from  me  !  At  least  tell  me'' — ^he  hesitated  and 
seemed  unable  to  speak  out — '  tell  me — since 
you  seem  to  understand  complaints  of  the  heart 
so  well — tell  me  that  you  will  cure  mine.' 

'  O  !  they  will  cure  themselves  !  Only  let 
them  alone,  and  never  mind  them.  Think  of 
something  else ; — and,  above  all,  never  talk  of 
them  i — Complaints  of  the  heart  soon  go  away.' 

'  O !  you  little  know  what  some  hearts  endure !' 

'  O !  all  hearts  can  endure  a  great  deal  without 
the  smallest  damage.     Hearts  are  hard  things.' 

'  Is  yours  so  hard  ?'' 

'  Yes,  impenetrably  hard,  my  Lord !'  she 
said,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  such  meaning, 
that  Lord  Lumbercourt  felt  the  ice  close  over 
him,  and  relapsing  again  into  silence  and  nervous 
perturbation,  betook  himself,  with  more  assiduity 
than  ever,  to  rolling  up  the  drawing  paper. 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  ^6? 

Caroline  herself  felt  very  awkward  and 
uneasy — and  the  more  silent  Lord  Lumber- 
court  became,  the  more  incessantly  did  she 
talk — though  certainly  without  eliciting  much 
attention  from  his  Lordship,  who  very  evidently 
did  not  know  what  she  was  saying — neither 
indeed  did  she  very  well  know  herself.  He 
looked  so  mortified  and  miserable,  that  pitying 
his  uncomfortable  feelings,  she  said  with  great 
sweetness — 

'  But  you  don''t  look  at  my  little  sketch,  my 
Lord,  and  this  is  one  of  my  very  first  attempts 
in  drawing  from  nature.  I  want  to  know  if 
you  think  it  like^ — 

'  Like  every  thing  you  do — like  yourself — 
perfection.' 

'  Nay,'  said  Caroline,  laughing — '  You  said 
I  took  you  for  a  great  ass — ^but  it  is  me  you 
take  for  a  little  ass.' 

Lord  Lumbercourt  seized  her  hand,  but 
colouring  all  over,  she  hastily  withdrew  it,  and 
starting  up,  exclaimed,  in  great  confusion — 

'  I — I  must  go — I  forgot  something.' 

'  No,  no — dearest  Miss  St.  Clair  !— do  not 
leave  me — stay  one  moment.' 


268  SKETCH    TAKING, 

'  I  cannot — I  cannot  my  Lord !'  said  Caroline, 
breaking  from  him.  '  I  forgot ! — I  left  a  paper 
— a  letter — open— on  the  table — I  must  go  and 
get  if — and  she  would  have  fled,  but  Lord 
Lumbercourt  had  hold  of  her  dress,  and  he 
held  it  gently — ^but  very  firmly. 

'  At  least  let  me  go  with  you,'  he  said,  very 
gravely  and  respectfully — *  do  not  fly  from  me 
thus.     Surely  you  are  not  afraid  of  me  ?"* 

'  O  no  !  no  ! — I  only — forgot — I  had  left  a 
paper  very  foolishly' — and  stooping  to  pull  a 
rose,  and  smelling  to  it  with  great  diligence, 
Carohne  again  made  an  attempt,  as  they  walked 
towards  the  house,  to  talk  upon  common  subjects, 
but  in  a  very  embarrassed  manner,  and  with  no 
better  success  than  before.  They  entered  the 
drawing  room,  where  there  certainly  were  divers 
pieces  of  paper  upon  the  table,  one  of  which 
Caroline  hastily  seized  upon,  and  would  as 
hastily  have  run  ofi*  with — though  it  was  only 
an  invitation  to  a  Soiree,  had  not  Lord  Lumber- 
court  prevented  her. 

'  Miss — St.  Clair  !' — gasped  his  Lordship, 
quite  out  of  breath  with  the  laborious  exertions 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  269 

he  had  made  to  keep  pace  with  her  along  the 
terrace — '  You — ^must — not  go.' 

'  I  want  to  get  my  drawing  '  things,'  said 
Caroline. 

'  Never — mind  them' — gasped  his  Lordship. 

Never  mind  his  Lordship  rather,  would  have 
been  Caroline's  determination,  if  he  had  not  held 
her  hand — she  could  not  escape. 

'  Let  me  get  you  some  wine  and  water,  my 
Lord.  Let  me  ring  for  Gregory,'  trying  to 
disengage  herself. 

'  No — you — you  only  can  be' — 

'  Have  some  raspberry  vinegar' — 

'  My  sole  restorative,'  uttered  Lord  Lumber- 
court,  continuing  his  own  speech  with  difficulty, 
and  not  attending  in  the  least  to  the  vinegar 
proposition — '  Only  give  me  time' — 

'  And  me  patience' — thought  Caroline,  who 
plainly  saw  what  she  had  to  undergo ;  and 
as  Lord  Lumbercourt  puffed  and  wiped  his 
brows,  and  puffed  still  more  with  vexation 
because  he  puffed  so  much,  she  had  no  resource 
but  resignation  and  sitting  still.  It  was  now  her 
turn  to  twist  and  twirl  between  her  fingers  the 
piece  of  paper  she  had  picked  up,  and  to  be  silent 


270  SKETCH    TAKING, 

—though  not  absent— and  it  was  Lord  Lumber- 
court'*s  turn,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  his  breath,  to 
speak.  He  told  her,  with  all  the  earnestness  and 
sincerity  of  truth — and  with  all  the  embarrasment 
and  difficulty  that  mark  a  true  attachment — how 
truly  and  devotedly,  and  irrevocably  he  loved 
her— how  entirely  the  whole  happiness  of  his 
future  life  depended  upon  her — and  how 
exclusively  her  happiness  should  be  the  whole 
object  of  his — if  she  would  allow  him  to  devote 
it  to  her. 

Caroline  at  first,  rallying  her  spirits,  at- 
tempted to  interrupt  him,  and  to  laugh  it  off,  by 
treating  it  en  badinage — as  a  jest. 

'You  don't  really  think  me  in  jest,'  said 
Lord  Lumbercourt,  pressing  her  hand,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  her. 

Caroline  coloured  crimson — the  mantling 
blush  rushed  over  her  beautiful  polished  brow 
and  cheeks ;  she  raised  her  eyes,  with  one  glance 
of  conscious  self-convicted  acknowledgment, 
then  instantly  dropped  them  beneath  his. 

'  Affectation — O  how  unlike  you  !  dearest 
Miss  St.  Clair !' — murmured  Lord  Lumber- 
court,  again  seizing  her  reluctant  hand.     '  You 


OR   LOVE    MAKING.  271 

know  that  I  am  sincere — ^you  know  that  my 
whole  heart  and  soul  are  yours — that  I  love 
you  as  I  never  loved  woman.  O  do  not  trifle 
with  me !' 

'  I  will  not  trifle  with  you,  my  Lord  !  You 
do  not  deserve  that  I  should — I  only  wished  to 
have  spared  you, — to  have  spared  myself  this 
scene.  I  feel  your  preference  most  gratefully, 
but  I  never  can  return  it.' 

Lord  Lumbercourt's  supplications,  and  pro- 
testations, and  lamentations,  may  easily  be 
conceived.  He  could  not  bear  to  relinquish  his 
suit — he  petitioned  hard  for  the  smallest  hope, 
— for  time — ^for  permission  only  to  try  to  alter 
her  determination  against  him,  by  patient  perse- 
verence — to  recommend  himself  to  her  affection 
by  any  sacrifices — to  become  what  she  would 
wish  him.  She  was  gentle,  but  inexorable; — till 
at  last,  in  despair — in  an  unlucky  moment — ^he 
went  down  upon  his  knees,  in  order  to  melt  her 
obduracy.  Caroline  could  scarcely  refrain 
from  laughing — ^he  looked  so  inexpressibly  ridi- 
culous. The  awkward  constraint  and  painful 
posture   of    the    stiff"   swelled    limbs — the   odd 


S72  SKETCH    TAKING, 

contortions  he  involuntarily  made — and  the 
absurd  figure  of  this  unwieldy,  infirm,  gouty 
old  man,  in  this  attitude,  would  really  have 
overset  the  gravity  of  a  judge. 

But  Caroline  behaved  admirably,  and  with- 
out a  visible  smile  besought  him  to  rise.  But  in 
vain; — as  if  despair  had  seized  him,  he  remained 
rooted  to  the  spot  and  speechless,  while  she 
exhorted  him  till  she  was  tired  to  get  up. 

At  last,  having  implored  him  to  rise  till  her 
patience  was  exhausted,  she  said — '  My  Lord,  I 
must  insist  upon  it  that  you  rise  !' 

'  But  I  can't !'  said  the  unfortunate  Peer.* 

At  this  confession,  and  the  rueful  face  with 
which  it  was  uttered,  Caroline's  gravity  was 
utterly  overcome — and  unable  to  resist  the 
absurdity  of  the  spectacle,  she  was  seized  with 
a  fit  of  laughter,  which,  by  attempting  to 
suppress  it,  shook  her  internally  so  violently, 
as  to  render  her  utterly  incapable  of  assisting 


*  Fact  .'—The  circumstance  actually  happened  as  re- 
lated. 


OR    LOVE    MAKING,  ^73 

her  noble  lover  to  get  upon  his  legs.  In  vain 
she  tried  to  push  him  up  by  the  shoulders  ;  the 
half  smothered  laughter  which  nearly  convulsed 
her,  and  which  he  had  the  mortification  of 
hearing,  made  her  powerless  as  an  infant,  so 
that  her  exertions,  united  with  his  own,  utterly 
failed  to  accomplish  the  erection  of  his  ponderous 
body — and  she  was  compelled,  at  last,  to  ring 
the  bell  for  some  more  able  arm.  Having 
done  so,  she  was  making  her  escape  out  of 
the  room  before  the  footman  could  answer  it, 
when  she  ran  against  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland 
at  the  door. 

'  Whither  so  fast.  Miss  St.  Clair.  Stop  a 
minute,**  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  detaining  her. 
But  at  the  spectacle  of  Lord  Lumbercourt 
upon  his  knees  before  an  empty  chair — ^by  the 
seat  of  which  he  was  painfully  supporting 
himself  with  his  hands — both  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Cleveland  burst  out  into  an  incontroulable  fit  of 
laughter,  which  seemed  likely  to  have  no  end, 
while  Caroline  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  gave 
free  vent  to  the  mirth  she  could  no  longer 
restrain. 

VOL.    I.  T 


274  SKETCH    TAKING, 

'  What  do  you  stand  grinning  there  for,  you 
rascal  ?  Help  me  up,  or  I'll  break  your  head. 
Help  me  up,  I  say,  you  impudent  scoundrel  !"* 
exclaimed  the  enraged  Peer  to  the  footman  who 
had  answered  the  bell,  and  who  stood  with  a 
broad  grin  upon  his  face,  unable  to  refrain  from 
joining  in  the  general  chorus  of  laughter  at  the 
sight  of  the  unfortunate  Peer  upon  his  knees. 

The  ^impudent  scoundrel'  at  last  got  him 
upon  his  legs,  and  he  limped  across  the  room, 
casting  a  look  of  wrath  upon  Colonel  Cleveland, 
who  was  rolling  upon  a  sofa  in  a  helpless  pa- 
roxysm of  mirth,  and  another  at  Mrs.  Cleveland, 
who  in  vain  attempted  to  speak  to  him,  being 
wholly  unable  to  articulate  for  laughter;  he 
flung  the  door  behind  him  with  a  violent  clap, 
and  left  the  house. 

It  may  be  imagined,  that,  after  this  denoue- 
ment. Lord  Lumbercourt  and  'Gregory'  left 
Lausanne  as  fast  as  the  natural  dilatoriness  of 
their  nature  would  admit,  and  faster  than  they 
had  ever  been  known  to  do  any  thing  before. 

Mrs.  Cleveland  in  vain  importuned  Caroline 
not  to  let  the  poor  old  Peer  go  away  in  despair. 


OR   LOVE  MAKING.  275 

^  Give  him  some  ray  of  comfort,  Caroline,  do  ! 
Just  a  word  of  encouragement !  The  least 
particle  of  hope  would  make  him  fly — ^no,  that 
he  can't  do — make  him  limp,  to  you.  Why  how 
obdurate  and  ill-natured  you  must  have  been, 
to  oblige  the  poor  old  man  to  go  down  upon  his 
knees,  when  it  was  an  impossibility  he  should 
ever  get  up  again !'  And  at  the  very  recollection 
Mrs.  Cleveland  burst  out  into  a  fresh  fit  of 
laughter. 

Caroline  assured  her  very  seriously,  that 
nothing  should  induce  her  to  give  Lord  Lum- 
bercourt  any  encouragement. 

'  But  just  let  me  drop  him  a  hint  as  if  from 
myself,  not  to  despair.  That  will  not  commit 
you,  and  you  can  consider  about  it,  and  get  time, 
and  perhaps  get  accustomed  to  him.  Really  he  is 
a  good  hearted  well-disposed  person,  and  the 
difference  of  age  is  all  on  the  right  side ;  and 
after  all  he  is  only  fifty : — and  so  gouty,  that  I 
really  think  he  can't  live  very  long — and  what 
a  jointure  you  would  have  ! — a  young,  beautiful, 
dashing  widow  ! — Lady  Lumbercourt ! — The 
Countess  Lumbercourt! — What  a  sensation 
T  2 


276  SKETCH    TAKING, 

you  would  make  ! — You  must  think  better  of  it ! 
Really  a  coronet  and  twenty  thousand  a-year, 
are  not  to  be  had  every  day,' 

Caroline's  eyes  opened  vdth  astonishment  at 
this  speech.  'Why  you  don't  really  think  it 
possible  I  should  think  of  marrying  him — 
Adeline !' 

'  More  unlikely  things  have  come  to  pass — I 
wish  you  would  think  of  it.  I  am  sure  you 
might  have  all  your  own  way,  and  make  him 
do  exactly  as  you  like.  And  what  a  charming 
Countess  you  would  make  !' 

'  Marry  him  !'-— exclaimed  Caroline  in  asto- 
nishment— '  Marry  Lord  Lumbercourt !' — and 
she  could  say  no  more  for  laughing. 

After  a  long  conversation,  Mrs.  Cleveland 
became  perfectly  convinced  that  Caroline  never 
would  marry  Lord  Lumbercourt,  and  the  subject 
was  dropped. 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  277 

LETTER  X. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

Belle  Vue,  near  Lausanne, 
'    Sd  September. 

Do  you  remember  our  two  unrivalled  old 
grand  aunts,  Deborah  and  Polly  Polworth  ? 
Do  you  remember  when  they  came  from  West- 
moreland, to  pay  a  "visit  to  my  father  and 
mother,  in  our  girlish  days— our  unspeakable 
entertainment  at  their  antiquated  dress,  and  still 
more  antiquated  manners.  Good  old  souls ! 
there  is  nothing  like  them  now  left  in  this  world. 
We  had  no  idea,  in  those  days,  of  their  value 
as  rarities.  Methinks  I  still  see  them  with 
their  powdered  hair  turned  up  from  the  high 
forehead,  and  combed  back  over  a  cushion: 
little  fly  caps  stuck  on  the  top  of  those  strange 
erections,  which  they  called  head  pieces ; — their 
rustling  lut\string  gowns,  that  stood  of  themselves 
with  stiffness — open  in  front,  with  clean  starched 
muslin  aprons,  and  handkerchiefs  primly  pinned 


278  SKETCH    TAKING, 

across  their  breasts,  to  the  bottom  of  the  long 
tapering  waist; — tight  sleeves  covering  the 
elbows,  and  terminating  in  double  ruffles : — 
short  silk  mittens — high  heeled  shoes,  with 
magnificent  square  buckles  in  front — and  the 
most  prim,  perpendicular,  formal  figures,  that 
certainly  ever  were  beheld  in  the  nineteenth 
century !  Do  you  remember  how  our  reading 
used  to  annoy  them? — How  severely  Aunt 
Deborah  used  to  reprobate  such  '  idle,  use- 
less ways  of  spending  our  time,'  and  inculcate 
the  necessity  of  '  little  girls  being  industrious' — 
by  which  she  meant  sewing  from  morning  till 
night?  Do  you  remember  Aunt  Polly — ^in 
imitation  of  the  rest  of  us,  who  were  all  reading, 
once  taking  up  a  book,  and  sitting  with  it  in 
her  hand,  to  our  unspeakable  amusement  for 
about  an  hour,  turned  upside  down  ?  Do  you 
remember  Aunt  Deborah  one  morning  peering 
over  the  top  of  her  spectacles,  from  her  carpet 
work,  and  asking  me,  in  her  sharp  tone — 
'  What  are  you  reading  there,  child  ?' 
'  History,  Aunt  Deborah,'  I  said. 


OR   LOVE    MAKING.  ^79 

'  What  history,  child  ?  the  history  of  Jack 
the  Giant  Killer  ?' 

'  No  Aunt  Deborah,  I  said — (unable  to  stifle 
a  laugh) — the  history  of  the  Romans.' 

'  The  Romans  truly !  And  pray  what 
business  have  you  with  the  Romans,  child  ! 
Why  the  Romans  have  all  been  dead — I  don't 
know  how  many  years  ago,  child  f 

'  But  then  I  like  to  know  all  they  did,  and 
all  that  happened  to  them,  when  they  were 
living.  Aunt  Deborah  V 

'  And  what  can  it  signify  to  you  what  they 
did,  child  ?  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  of 
such  idle  curiosity.  A  little  girl,  like  you,  fond 
of  such  foolish  tittle-tattle  as  that !  Thank  my 
stars,  I  never  had  so  much  idle  curiosity  !  I 
never  thought  of  prying  into  people's  concerns 
that  are  dead  and  buried.  No,  indeed — ^for  my 
part,'  continued  the  good  lady  with  a  self-satisfied 
air— 'I  am  always  content  with  knowing  all  the 
concerns  of  my  own  neighbours  !' 

But  above  all ,  do  you  remember  how  Aunt 
Deborah,  when  'old  maids'  were  talked  of — 
stiffly  drew  up  her  long  neck,  and  bridled,  and 
proudly  observed — 


280  SKETCH    TAKING, 

'  We  might  have  been  married — for  Polly 
had  an  offer.'* 

But  if  the  sayings  and  doings  of  these  unex- 
ampled Aunts  of  ours  have  vanished  from  your 
remembrance,  dear  Georgy ;  I  am  sure,  at  least, 
you  must  remember,  full  well,  how  I^  used  to 
teaze  you,  after  Mr.  Beaufort  proposed  to  you, 
with  continually  exclaiming — '  We  might  have 
been  married,  for  Georgy  had  an  offer  !' 

But  now,  my  dear  Georgy,  I  have  had  an 
offer  myself — ^and  stcch  an  offer  !  Never  shall  I 
have  such  another  !  I  have  had  an  offer  from 
Lord  Lumbercourt ! — and  I  might  be — or  might 
have  been — (maybe  he  would  not  have  me  now) 
—married  and  miserable — a  Peeress  and  a  peni- 
tent for  life  !  This  news  will  not  surprise  you; 
for  it  is  quite  clear,  from  your  last  letter,  that 
you  expected  it,  (thanks,  I  imagine,  to  Mrs. 
Cleveland's  information),  though  /  certainly  did 
not.  I  saw,  indeed,  very  clearly,  that  the  old 
Lord  had  taken  a  foolish  fancy  to  me — ^but  I 


*  Verbatim—from  real  life — like  all  the  foregoing  sayings 
of  these  venerable  spinsters. 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  281 

really  did  not  think  him  quite  foolish  enough 
seriously  to  wish  to  marry  me,  or  to  imagine  that 
I  would  marry  him.  Still  less  did  I  suspect  you 
of  such  a  pitch  of  folly  as  to  believe  it  possible. 
What  does  the  old  Scotch  song  say  "i: 

The  carle  has  nae'  faut  but  ane, 

For  he  has  lands  and  siller  plenty ; 

But  waes  me,  he  is  fafty  ane 

And  I'm  na  mair  than  scrimply  twenty. 

Hout  awa',  I  winna  hae'  him, 

Nae,  forsooth,  I  winna'  hae'  him. 

What  signifies  his  dirty  riggs 

An'  cash,  wi'  sic  an  auld  man  wi'  them  ? 

Are  not  these  sagacious  lines  a  sufficient 
answer  to  your  most  sagacious  letter  ?  However, 
I  am  particularly  obliged  by  your  good  advice 
on  the  subject,  which,  like  all  the  good  advice 
I  ever  heard  of,  will  be  thrown  away.  Your 
truisms  respecting  marriage,  so  very  sensible 
and  judicious,  amuse  me  much.  'That  we 
cannot  expect  every  thing  in  any  marriage, 
something  must  always  be  given  up, — that  after 
all,  esteem  and  regard  are  the  best  foundation 
for  happiness, — that  love, — what  is  called  love. 


282  SKETCH    TAKING, 

— generally  passes  away ;  that  men,  no  longer 
young,  are  free  from  the  faults  of  youth, — and 
that  the  older  men  are,  the  more  lasting  is 
their  attachment  to  their  young  wives,'  &c.  &c. 
&c.  Which,  translated  into  plain  English,  means, 
'you  had  better  marry  Lord  Lumbercourt, 
because,  as  you  can  never  have  every  thing 
you  like  in  any  match,  you  may  as  well  give  up 
every  thing  you  do  like.  As  he  bears  a  very 
respectable  character,  of  course  you  must  esteem 
him,  and  esteem  is  the  best  foundation  for 
happiness; — ^never  mind  whether  there  is  any 
superstructure  to  build  upon  the  foundation,  a 
foundation  will  do  without.  Then  as  he  is 
old,  he  cannot  be  a  young  fool  himself,  and  will 
make  a  young  fool  of  you — a  great  advantage  ! 
Then  (not  that  I  would  insinuate  such  a  thing 
for  the  world,  but,)  as  he  is  rather  old  and  very 
gouty,  he  may  perhaps  die,  and  leave  you  a 
young  widow — and  then' — 

Such  is  your  letter  when  rendered  into  plain 
English,  my  dear  Georgy,  and  you  adroitly 
intimate,  that  perhaps  I  may  repent  it  some 
time  or  other — if  I  do  not  marry  Lord  Lumber- 


OR    LOVE    MAKING.  283 

court.  Perhaps  so.  It  is,  at  least,  certain  that 
I  shall  repent  it,  and  that^  without  loss  of  time, 
if  I  do ;  and  repentance,  even  in  a  coach  and 
six — a  vehicle,  by  the  way,  for  which  I  never 
had  any  peculiar  passion — ^is  not  at  all  to  my 
taste.  Then  you  represent  how  much  it  will 
please  my  mother !  I  should  certainly  like  to 
marry  to  please  my  mother,  or  rather  that  my 
mother  should  be  pleased  when  I  marry  ;  but  I 
never  will  marry  to  please  any  body  but  myself. 
My  dear  Georgy,  say  no  more  about  it, — I 
cannot  marry  Lord  Lumbercourt.  If  even  I 
were  to  be  weak  enough,  or  wicked  enough,  to 
agree  to  marry  him,  I  could  not  do  it.  I  should 
fly  from  him  at  last,  if  it  were  even  at  the  very 
altar.  But  I  deny  your  charge.  I  am  not 
romantic.  I  never  was.  I  would  not  marry  a 
man  who  was  pennyless,  or  poor,  if  he  were  an 
angel  descended  from  heaven,  because  I  know 
that  with  poverty  there  can  be  no  happiness  to 
persons  brought  up  as  we  have  been,  however 
strong  the  attachment.  But  I  will  marry  no  man 
unless  I  love  him  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul, 
better  than  any  other  human  being — ^better  than 


284  SKETCH    TAKING. 

all  the  world  besides;  and  I  would  rather  live 
with  the  man  I  did  love  on  one  thousand  a^year, 
than  with  any  other  on  twenty.  But  this — I 
maintain  it — is  not  romance  but  reason.  You 
know  it  was  the  wisest  of  men  who  said, 
'  better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs,  where  love  is, 
than  a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith,' — and 
I,  though  not  quite  the  wisest  of  women, 
entirely  agree  with  Solomon  on  this  point. — 
And  so  do  you,  at  bottom — you  know  you  do  ! 
And  though  you  counsel  me  to  marry  Lord 
Lumbercourt,  you  would  never  have  married 
him  yourself.  But  1  have  no  time  to  talk  any 
longer — not  even  of  marriage  (that  superlatively 
interesting  subject),  for  it  is  very  late;  and 
to-morrow,  by  the  peep  of  dawn,  we  set  oif  for 
the  lakes  and  mountains  of  the  Bernese  Ober- 
land.     So,  good  night. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 


Sure  never  was  such  another  rencounter, 
Which  lames  report  to  follow  it ! 

Shakspeare. 

And  at  each  glance  his  senses  stole, 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 


LETTER  XI. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO  MRS.  BALCARRIS. 

Berne,  August  28. 

We  set  off  on  a  glorious  morning,  in  our 
usual  conveyance  of  little  chars  a  cote,  for  our 
grand  expedition  to  '  the  high  Alps,'  and  the 
lakes  of  Switzerland.  In  consequence  of  Mrs. 
Cleveland's  situation,  however,  which  made  the 


286  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

services  of  an  attendant  indispensable  to  her 
comfort,  we  were  now  encumbered  with  Plait, 
her  maid.  We  first  trotted  to  Vevai,  as  before, 
through  vineyards  said  to  produce  by  far  the 
finest  grapes  of  this  mountainous  country — ^but 
as  they  will  not  be  ripe  till  the  end  of  October 
at  soonest,  and  often  never  ripen  at  all,  we  have 
little  chance  of  tasting  them. 

From  Vevai,  leaving  the  lake  behind  us,  we 
toiled  up  long  hills  and  bad  roads,  till  we  found 
ourselves  far  out  of  sight  of  its  beautiful  expanse, 
in  a  high  grass  country,  well  enclosed  by  hedges, 
and  clothed  with  thick  natural  woods,  chiefly  of 
pine  trees,  which  skirted  meadows  of  the  bright- 
est verdure,  covered  with  cattle,  sheep,  and 
goats — a  pleasant  change  from  the  dull  uni- 
formity of  lifeless  vineyards.  The  villages  were 
full  of  timber — trees  of  immense  size  sawed  up 
into  planks,  and  huge  stacks  of  fire  wood,  for 
winter  fuel,  surrounded  every  house:  and  every 
house  and  out-house  was  built  of  wood,  though 
there  appeared  to  be  a  superabundance  of  stone. 
The  houses,  and  the  costumes  of  the  female 
peasants,  were  as  grotesque  and  as  picturesque 
as  Swiss  houses  and  costumes  invariably  are. 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  287 

Crosses  and  Madonnas,  and  the  dirt  of  the 
little  town  of  BuUe,  proclaimed  our  entrance  into 
the  Catholic  Canton  of  Fribourg.  BuUe  is  the 
mart  of  the  Gruyere  cheese,  but  we  went  on  to 
the  town  of  Gruyere  itself,  where  the  greatest 
attraction  is — not  the  cheese,  which  we  found  very 
bad,  but — the  ancient  castle,  still  in  perfect  pre- 
servation, which  stands  on  a  lofty  hill,  above 
the  town.  It  was  the  residence  of  the  Comtes  de 
Gruyere,  the  last  proud  Lords  of  Switzerland — 
who  here  maintained  their  feudal  sway,  long  after 
every  other  princely  house  was  overthrown — 
left  alone  to  mourn  over  the  fall  of  their  own 
power,  and  the  rise  of  their  country's  freedom. 
The  honest  Burgesses  of  Fribourg  and  Berne, 
at  last  seized  their  vast  property  for  debts  due 
to  them,  and  turned  them  out  of  that  strong 
castle,  whose  cannons  would  once  have  blown 
these  audacious  plebeians  to  atoms^-or  whose 
dungeons  would  have  incarcerated  them  for  life, 
for  the  insolence  of  even  humbly  asking  for  that 
justice,  which  then  they  could  enforce. 

The  great  banqueting  hall  of  the  castle, 
where  armed  Knights  and  Barons,  and  Ladies 


^88  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

gay,  sat  at  solemn  feasts,  serenaded  with  music 
and  minstrelsy,  and  fed  with  sheep  and  oxen 
roasted  whole,  still  remains  as  in  days  of  yore— 
but  empty  and  tenantless.  So  do  the  dungeons 
and  the  chamber  of  torture,  and  all  the  appur- 
tenances of  feudal  state  and  tyranny.  We 
returned  to  BuUe,  to  sleep  at  a  most  uncom- 
fortable inn — annoyed  with  bad  smells— tor- 
mented with  vermin — smothered  between  filthy 
feather  beds — and  distracted  with  noises. 
Woefully  convinced  by  this  fresh  example  of 
the  indissoluble  union  between  Catholicism  and 
dirt,  we  all  got  up  at  four  o'clock,  because  we 
could  not  sleep — and  having  breakfasted  bv 
candle  light,  actually  were  on  the  road  to 
Fribourg  at  half-past  five.  The  country  was 
pretty  and  undulating ;  for  a  wonder,  in  Swit- 
zerland, nothing  like  a  mountain  met  the  view. 
The  scenery  indeed  had  but  little  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Switzerland  in  it.  Sometimes  the 
road  passed  through  extensive  forests  of  pine- 
sometimes  looked  down  upon  the  crystal  Sarine 
below,  winding  round  steep  banks  and  jutting 
peninsulas,    crowned    with     dai'k    pine     trees. 


TOURS    AND    TOWNS.  289 

Fribourg  is  an  ugly,  but  most  extraordinary 
old  place,  in  a  beautiful  but  most  extraordinary 
situation.  The  romantic  Sarine  rushes  by  its 
grotesque  and  antique  walls,  which  inclose  not 
only  an  immense  extent  of  ground,  but  romantic 
dells  and  solitary  scenes,  more  like  the  wilds  of 
a  desert,  than  the  interior  of  a  city — while 
astonishing  precipices  of  sand-stone,  forming 
another  wall  of  nature,  rise  around,  in  the  sides 
of  which  curious  chambers,  and  cells,  and  chapels, 
have  been  hollowed  out,  fit  for  the  abode  of 
pious  anchorites.  The  few  inhabitants,  the 
enormous  site  of  this  strange  old  city  contains, 
present  a  curious  contrast  with  each  other — 
one  half  of  them  living  on  the  top  of  a  rocky 
precipice,  the  other  at  the  bottom  of  it — so  that 
the  pavement  of  one  street  hterally  serves  as  the 
roof  for  the  houses  of  another : — while  it  is  a 
curious  fact,  that  these  two  divisions,  though 
fellow  citizens,  are  yet  as  distinct  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  two  different  kingdoms — speak  different 
languages,  and  cannot  understand  each  other — 
the  high  dwellers  speaking  French,  and  the  low 
German. 

VOL.  I.  u 


290  TOURS    AND    TOWNS. 

But  the  extraordinary  sight  of  Monks, 
in  their  long  white  robes ;  and  Friars,  with 
shaved  crowns  and  bare  sandelled  legs,  and 
ropes  round  their  waists,  walking  solemnly 
about  the  streets — and  Soeurs  Crises,  habited 
like  nuns,  gliding  along; — the  host  borne  in 
state  through  the  market,  and  all  the  dirty 
fish  women  and  cabbage  hucksters  falling  down 
on  their  knees  in  the  dirt,  to  adore  it — the 
tinkling  of  bells,  the  saying  of  masses,  the 
worshipping  of  images,  the  figures  of  Saints 
and  Madonnas  that  adorn  the  gloomy,  dirty, 
old-fashioned  streets,  and  the  quaint  antiquated 
dresses  of  the  people — altogether  present  a 
spectacle  so  extraordinary,  that  I  am  convinced 
Fribourg  has  not  its  parallel  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  One  cannot  help  thinking  that  its  honest 
citizens  have  contrived  to  lock  up  the  sixteenth 
century  within  its  walls  ;  for  you  seem  as  if  you 
had  suddenly  got  into  a  place  which  was  going 
quietly  on  in  that  primitive  age — while  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  are  living  in  the  nineteenth. 

We  paid  a  visit  to  the  Nuns  of  the  Ursuline 
convent.  I  never  saw  such  droll  figures.  Oil 
skin  hoods  over  their  heads,   tight  long  black 


TOURS    AND    TOWNS.  ^91 

waists  down  to  their  hips — and  enormous 
bunchy  short  petticoats  standing  out  far  and 
wide — had  an  effect  so  absurd  and  disfiguring, 
that  the  Graces  themselves  must  have  looked 
hideous  in  the  garb  of  an  Ursuline  Sister. 
Some  of  the  Nuns  were  only  eighteen  or  nineteen 
years  of  age ! 

They  educate  girls  en  pension,  at  eighteen 
louis  d'  or  a  year,  for  which  they  teach  them 
religion,  reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  and  needle 
work ;  any  accomplishment  beyond  these,  they 
must  learn  from  masters,  and  pay  for  extra. 
The  works  they  make  for  sale,  which  they 
shewed  us,  were  no  better  than  such  garters 
and  penny  pincushions,  as  are  hawked  about  by 
the  lowest  match-venders  in  England,  and  made 
with  similar  coarseness  and  vulgarity. 

Having,  by  dint  of  much  inquisitiveness, 
elicited  the  fact  that  they  had  scarcely  a  book  in 
the  convent,  and  that  the  education  of  their  pupils 
was  conducted  without  these  auxiliaries, — the  old 
nun,  perceiving  my  astonishment  at  this  confes- 
sion, took  up  one — a  breviary — and  kissed  it  with 
deep  respect,  saying — *  But  we  have  this,  which 
u  2 


292  TOURS    AND    TOWNS. 

comprises  all  :"* — exactly  the  idea  of  the  Eastern 
barbarian,  who  is  said  to  have  ordered  all  the 
books  of  the  Alexandrian  library  to  be  burnt, 
because,  if  they  agreed  with  the  Coran  they 
were  useless,  and  if  they  differed  from  it — 
pernicious. 

Wherever  the  Catholic  religion  reigns,  igno- 
rance must  prevail — ^because,  with  the  light  of 
knowledge,  it  invariably  decays.  These  nuns, 
whose  lives  are  devoted  to  religion,  have  not  a 
Bible  !  The  word  of  God  they  are  interdicted 
from  reading ! 

There  are  eight  monasteries  of  Nuns  and 
Friars  in  a  town  which  has  only  six  thou- 
sand inhabitants.  Beggars  abound,  and  dirt, 
and  laziness,  and  poverty,*  seem  to  charac- 
terise the  aspect  of  the  people  and  the  place.  It 
is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  dirtiest  towns  imaginable, 
though  it  has  twenty-eight  fine  fountains  of 
fresh  water. 

We  walked  to  view  all  the  lions  of  the  town  ; 
the  famous  lime-tree,  planted  at  the  battle  of 
Morat,  in  1476,  and  the  cathedral,  a  Gothic 
structure,  considered  in  Switzerland  a  prodigy 
of  architecture,  but  far  inferior  to  the  meanest  of 


TOURS    AND    TOWNS.  293 

our  noble  cathedrals  in  England.  We  wandered 
to  many  spots  which  command  most  picturesque 
views  of  this  curious  old  place,  and  were 
delighted,  above  all,  with  the  Porte  de  Bour- 
guillon,  built  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks,  between  two 
precipices.  The  '  Moulin  de  la  Motta,'  is  also 
extremely  picturesque.  We  were  compelled, 
perforce,  to  hunt  for  the  picturesque,  and  enjoyed 
those  romantic  objects  sorely  against  our  incli- 
nation— for  we  were  dying  of  hunger ; — and  the 
barbarous  hostess  of  the  inn  would  give  us  no 
dinner,  until  the  dinner  time  of  the  Table  d'Hote. 
'  II  faut  attendre,'  she  continually  replied,  in 
answer  to  the  suppHcations  and  remonstrances 
that  we  made. 

'  I  am  sure  I  never  knew  such  unreasonable 
people  as  these  Swiss  are,'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cleveland,  in  a  most  injured  complaining  tone — 
'to  keep  one  waiting  this  way  for  dinner,  to 
such  an  unconscionable  hour.' 

'  Most  unreasonable,'  I  echoed,  drawing 
out  my  watch,  which  pointed  to  five  minutes  past 
eleven  o'clock.  We  all  laughed — and  you  will 
stare.  But  remember  we  had  breakfasted,  (and 
very  slenderly),  long  before  five,  and  the  elastic 


294  TOURS    AND    TOWNS. 

air  of  Switzerland,  in  which  we  had  been 
walking  and  riding  for  six  hours,  made  us 
quite  ready  for  dinner,  though  dinner  was  not 
ready  for  us.  I  remember  once  seeing  a  manu- 
script letter  from  Anna  Boleyn,  who  most 
pathetically  complains,  that  at  the  fashionable 
court  of  Henry  the  VIII.  dinner  was  deferred 
till  the  '  unconscionable  hour  of  eleven  o''clock  !"* 
Little  did  I  think,  that  I,  myself,  should  ever 
echo  a  complaint  which  sounds  to  modern  ears 
so  preposterous  !  At  the  unconscionable  hour 
of  twelve  we  really  dined — with  a  most  stupid 
party  of  natives,  and  without  any  other  English. 
We  went  on  to  Berne,  through  a  pretty 
parkish  country — sometimes  winding  through 
woods,  sometimes  through  verdaat  lawns  quite 
open  to  the  road,  and  interspersed  with  pictu- 
resque groupes  of  trees — and  fine  old  'monarchs 
of  the  woods^  standing  alone.  It  was  very  like 
an  extensive  park  or  forest  in  England — with 
this  diflPerence,  that  in  England  the  wood  seems 
planted  upon  the  grass — in  Switzerland  the 
grass-land  looks  as  if  cut  out  of  the  woods;  which 
is  really  the  case;  the  country  here  naturally 
running  into  forest. 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  295 

Berne,  with  its  curious  little  low  arcades, 
its  deep  fosses,  its  venerable  bears,  its  respecta- 
ble aristocracy,  and  all  its  other  peculiarities, 
you  have  heard  described  so  often,  that  I  need 
not  describe  it  again.  It  is  in  point  of  size  and 
appearance  what  we  should  call  in  England,  a 
little  old-fashioned  country  town,  only  with  much 
less  of  bustle  and  business  than  most  of  our  country 
towns.  But  it  is  extremely  like  a  small  cathedral 
city;  for  though  a  great  place  in  Switzerland,  it 
would  be  a  very  Httle  place  in  England.  It 
contains  about  ten  thousand  inhabitants  ;  and  it 
is  marvellous  there  should  be  so  few,  for  the 
climate  is  so  healthy,  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
dying  known — all  the  children  that  are  born  live 
to  the  most  unheard  of  ages. 

Our  abode  was  at  '  Le  Faucon,'  but  we 
spent  the  evening  with  a  very  pleasant  family  of 
the  high  aristocracy  of  Berne,  to  whom  we  had 
letters  of  introduction  ;  and  made  a  most  serious 
attack  upon  their  gouter,  or  melange  of  tea, 
bread  and  butter,  cakes,  fruit,  pastry,  and 
sweetmeats,     which,     throughout    Switzerland, 


296  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

constitutes  the  evening  meal,  or  tea  and  supper 
united ;  and  which  we  were  quite  prepared  to 
do  justice  to, — from  our  twelve  o^clock  dinner, 
our  subsequent  rattle  in  the  chars,  and  walk 
round  Berne,  where  we  saw  the  cathedral,  the 
public  library,  and  museum.  From  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  of  the  town  we  beheld  that 
celebrated  and  indescribably  grand  view  of  the 
whole  long  extended  range  of  snow  clad  Alps, 
which  were  visible  to  their  very  base, — their 
sublime  forms  illuminated  with  the  rich  and 
changeful  glow  of  the  evening  sky — looking  like 
the  giants  of  earth  ranged  in  battle  array  along 
the  wide  extended  horizon — 

Their  feet  on  earth, — their  forehead  in  the  skies. 

The  environs  of  Berne  are  delightful.  The 
river  Aar  winds  round  the  beautiful  peninsula 
on  which  the  town  stands,  and  the  magnificent 
avenues  of  trees,  the  noble  terraces,  and  the 
extensive  walks  and  rides  which  surround  it  in 
every  direction,  must  render  it  a  delightful 
residence. 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS,  297 

LETTER  XII. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCAERIS. 

Berne^  6th  September. 

I  had  resolved  to  rise  very  early  this 
morning,  in  order  to  walk  out  to  see  the  magni- 
ficent range  of  the  Alps  at  sun  rise ;  but  the 
appointed  hour  had  passed,  and  no  sign  of  fille 
or  gar^on  appearing  with  a  light,  as  both  had 
faithlessly  promised;  I  got  up,  and  as  there 
are  no  bells  in  continental  bed-rooms — sallied 
forth  to  the  landing  place,  calling  aloud 
for  'fille  and  gar9on,'*  and  'light,'  in  French 
and  German  alternately.  At  length  an  answer 
was  returned,  and  a  light  appeared,  and  as  it 
ascended  the  stairs  I  began  to  rate  the  gar9on, 
who  carried  it,  in  German;  but  he  made  no 
reply,  and  when  he  came  close  to  me,  I 
perceived,  to  my  unspeakable  confusion,  that 
the  said  gar^on  was  a  gentleman — and  a  young 
and  handsome  gentleman, — with  a  fine  Brutus 
head    of    dark    curling    hair,    most    delicately 


298  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

arranged  and  perfumed,  and  wrapped  in  a  most 
superb  dressing  gown.  In  my  confusion,  I 
would  have  taken  the  light  from  him,  but  he 
held  it  fast,  saying  with  a  smile,  '  No,  I  can't 
part  with  this,  else  I  should  be  in  the  dark 
myself.     Allow  me  to  light  your  candle."' 

I  was  compelled  to  return  to  my  room  for 
my  candle—wishing  myself  in  the  centre  of  the 
earth.  He  followed  me  to  the  door,  and  stood 
there  with  his  light,  but  he  attempted  so  long 
in  vain  to  light  my  candle  from  his — though  how 
it  happened  to  be  so  difficult  a  matter  to 
accomplish,  I  really  could  not  conceive, — that 
at  last,  he  could  no  longer  keep  his  gravity, 
though  he  turned  off  his  involuntary  laugh  upon 
his  own  awkwardness.  My  confusion  became 
every  moment  more  intolerable,  and  I  never 
felt  more  relieved  than  when,  my  candle  being 
at  last  lighted,  I  shut  the  door  upon  him.  In 
a  minute  or  two  I  heard  a  rap  at  the  door, 
and  not  doubting  that  it  was  the  fille  or  gar9on 
come  at  last,  when  it  was  of  no  use,  I  opened  it 
to  reprimand  them ;  but  to  my  consternation  I 
beheld  the  same  hero  of  the  curling  hair  and 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  ^99 

sumptuous  dressing  gown,  come  back  again. 
He  said  '  his  candle  had  gone  out,  and  he  had 
returned  to  beg  for  a  Hght,  as  the  people  of  the 
house  were  not  up.' 

My  candle  was  upon  a  table  near  the  door, 
and  he  followed  me  to  it,  as  if  to  save  me  the 
trouble  of  bringing  it.  While  I  held  it,  he 
pretended  to  attempt  to  light  it,  but  I  saw  that 
he  purposely  avoided  it — and  without  making 
the  smallest  reply  to  any  thing  he  said,  I  was 
going  to  take  his  candle  in  my  hand  to  light  it 
myself — when,  to  my  unspeakable  indignation, 
he  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips  !  Throwing  him  from  me  with  a  sudden 
movement,  which  made  him  reel  backwards, 
and  measuring  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
look  of  ineffable  contempt,  I  exclaimed — 'Begone 
Sir  ! — Leave  the  room  instantly  !'  But  he  stood 
stock  still — so  I  immediately  opened  a  door 
which  led  into  an  adjoining  vacant  apartment, 
and  bolted  it  behind  me.  Some  minutes  elapsed 
before  I  heard  him  leave  the  room,  and  then 
returning  to  my  own,  I  found  on  the  table  the 
following  strange  burlesque  scrawl : — 


300  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

Lovely  and  Angelic  Being  ! 

Forgive  one  who  would  die  sooner  than 
offend  you,  and  who  is  wholly  incapable  of 
entertaining  a  thought  unworthy  your  purity  ! 
I  worship  your  noble  pride  and  dignity  of 
demeanour  ; — ^but  who  could  hear  the  music  of 
that  enchanting  voice — see  those  downcast  eyes, 
whose  veiled  glance  speaks  to  the  soul — ^half 
penetrate  the  delicate  bloom  of  those  soft  cheeks, 
shaded  by  the  envious  frills  of  deep  lace — ^and 
behold  the  fair  hand  half  hid  by  the  long  ruffle, 
approach  so  closely  to  my  own — without  im- 
printing on  it  one  mute  token  of  that  deep 
respect  and  admiration  which  filled  my  whole 
soul,  but  which  my  lips  might  not  utter  without 
impertinence  and  presumption.  What  Scarron 
said  of  the  beautiful  Anne  of  Austria,  full  well 
could  I  say  of  thee — 

At  the  end  of  her  sleeves  she  had 

A  pair  of  hands  so  white, 

It  sure  would  have  made  my  heart  glad, 

Had  they  box'd  me  from  morning  till  night. 


TOURS    AND    TOWNS.  301 

Forgive  me  then,  and  farewell !  loveliest  and 
sweetest  of  women  !  Fair  but  fleeting  vision  ! 
unknown  now,  and  perchance  for  ever !  Yet 
art  thou  still 


One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us  when  we 

Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face — 

And  oh  !  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 

In  momentary  gliding — the  soft  grace, 

The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree 

In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace — 

Whose  course  and  home  we  know  not,  nor  shall  know, 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad,  seen  no  more  below. 


For  ever  will  thy  image  remain  indelibly  im- 
pressed upon  the  tablet  of  my  remembrance. 
One  little  momento — one  relic — precious  because 
it  has  encircled  a  part  of  your  lovely  form — I 
have  dared  to  carry  away ;  but  leave  in  exchange 
for  it  my  heart !  '  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense.' 
With  profound  respect, 

Your  devoted 

Unknown. 

This  extravagant  farrago  of  absurdity  would 
have  made  one  think  the  man  mad,  but  as  he 


302  TOURS    AND    TOWNS. 

looked  perfectly  composed,  I  could  only  conclude 
he  was  foolish. 

What  '  the  relic'  might  be  he  had  carried 
off,  I  could  not  at  first  imagine,  because  I 
missed  nothing  till  I  had  quite  finished  dressing, 
when,  to  my  ^reat  consternation,  I  could  no 
■where  find  three  of  my  rings,  which  I  had  put 
off  along  with  the  rest  the  night  before,  and  as 
they  were  not  only  of  considerable  intrinsic 
value,  but  invaluable  to  me  from  being  the  gift 
of  my  nearest  and  dearest  friends,  I  could  not 
patiently  submit  to  their  loss,  I  could  have  no 
doubt  that  my  troublesome  visitor  had  carried 
them  off,  because  he  declared  he  had  carried  off 
a  memento  that  had  encircled  a  part  of  my 
person,  (a  quaint  way  of  describing  a  ring,) 
and  because  he  was  the  only  being  who  had  entered 
my  apartment,  in  which  he  had  remained  some 
minutes  alone.  I  could  not  but  feel  provoked  at 
his  impudence,  in  purloining  property  to  the 
value  of,  at  least,  fifty  or  sixty  pounds,  under  the 
silly  pretence  of  possessing  himself  of  a  relic. 
Yet  he  had  so  perfectly  the  air  and  manners  of 
a  gentlemen,  that  1  was  inclined  to  think  he  had 


TOURS    AND    TOWNS.  308 

taken  them  away  only  for  the  purpose  of  plaguing 
me,  and  obliging  me  to  seek  him  out  to  demand 
their  restitution.  But,  lest  he  should  prove  a 
swindler  and  make  off  with  them,  I  thought  it 
best  to  lose  no  time  in  endeavouring  to  recover 
them.  Col.  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  were  not  yet 
visible,  so  I  was  left  to  my  own  exertions.  I 
first  ascertained  from  the  gar(j;on  that  the  only 
English  in  the  house  except  ourselves,  consisted 
of  three  gentlemen  who  were  just  setting  off  toge- 
ther, and  one  gentleman  who  was  getting  his 
breakfast.  I  then  summoned  Mrs.  Plait,  Mrs. 
Cleveland's  maid,  who  you  know  is  a  staid  portly 
dame,  nearly  forty,  and  having  briefly  told  her  my 
adventure,  my  loss,  and  my  suspicions,  I 
directed  her  what  to  do;  and  putting  on  my 
bonnet,  with  a  thick  veil  folded  double,  I  stood 
close  behind  her,  on  the  landing  of  the  great 
staircase,  down  which  the  three  gentlemen  must 
pass.  I  saw,  however,  that  not  one  of  them 
was  the  thief,  so  Plait  and  I  let  them  proceed;  and 
we  then  repaired  to  the  solitary  gentleman's  door 
who  was  getting  his  breakfast.  She  rapped,  and 
he  called  out   '  entrez,  entrez,   done ;'  but  she 


304  TOURS    AND    TOWNS. 

continued  to  rap,  and  he  impatiently  to  call 
'  entrez  ;"•  until  I  said,  '  It  is  a  lady,  Sir.'  He 
instantly  opened  the  door,  and  came  out ; — and 
I,  who  had  retreated  behind  another  door  on  the 
same  landing,  very  distinctly  saw  through  the 
crevice,  by  its  open  hinges,  that  it  was  the 
culprit  himself,  though  he  could  not  see  me. 

He  stared  at  Plait  with  much  astonishment, 
and  said — '  What !  was  it  you  that  spoke  .?"* 

'  Yes,  Sir,'  said  Plait,  who  had  her  instruc- 
tions from  me.  *  It  was  I  who  wanted  to  speak 
to  you,  to  desire  you  will  please  to  return  me 
the  rings  that  you  took  away  from  my  room  this 
morning.' 

'  I ! — 1  take  away  your  rings  ! — What  do 
you  mean .?' 

'  I  mean  what  I  say.  Sir. — That  you  came 
into  my  room  this  morning,  and  took  away 
three  of  my  rings,  and' — 

'  Are  you  mad,  woman  ?'' 

'  Woman,  indeed  !'  muttered  Plait,  tossing 
her  head,  '  I  say  woman,  indeed  !  I  mean.  Sir,' 
said  she,  imperatively,  'that  I  want  the  rings 
that   you  took  from  my  room — for   a  joke,  I 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  305 

suppose — but  it's  no  joke  at  all — so  give  them 
to  me  directly,  if  you  please,  Sir.' 

'  I  know  nothing  about  your  rings,  nor  you 
either,  you  foolish  woman.' 

«  Foolish,  forsooth  ! — foolish !  I  would  have 
you  to  know,  Sir,' — 

'  And  I  would  have  you  to  know,  Ma'am, 
that  I  won't' — 

'  But  I  say.  Sir,  I  will  have  my  rings.' 

'  Confound  your  rings  !  What  have  I  to  do 
with  your  rings,  you  old  simpleton  ?' 

'  Old  indeed  ! — old  I  say  !' 

'  I  do'nt  care  what  you  say.  What  do  you 
come  to  torment  me  for .?' 

'  For  the  rings.  Sir — for  the  rings  !' 

'  The  rings  ! — I  don't  know  what  you  mean.' 

'  But  I  say  you  do.  Sir — ^you  took  the  rings 
— three  valuable  rings — from  my  room,  when 
you  came  to  ask  for  a  light  this  morning,  and 
there  is  your  nonsensical  letter  that  you  left 
instead  of  them — so  give  me  back  the  rings  ! 

'  Your  room  ?  Fou  ! — ^it  was  not  you  that  I 
saw  this  morning  !' 

VOL.    I.  X 


306  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

'  Ay,  you  need  not  pretend  to  be  so  asto- 
nished, Sir.  You  can't  have  forgot  it — so,  with- 
out more  to  do,  give  me  back  the  rings,  I  say/ 

'  Impossible  V  exclaimed  the  gentleman,  with 
a  long  drawn  breath  of  astonishment. 

'  Impossible  ! — ^but  I  say  it  is  possible,  and  it 
shall  be  possible,  though.     I  will  have  my  rings.' 

'I  know  nothing  about  your  rings,  good 
woman  !     I  never  saw  you  in  my  life  before.' 

«  No  !  and  will  you  go  to  deny  it  ? — Will 
you  go  to  deny  that  you  wrote  all  that  there 
balderdash  stuff.?' 

'  Eh  !  what !  let  me  see  ! — By  Jove,  it's  my 
foolery,  sure  enough. — Yet  it's  impossible  it 
could  have  been  you. — I  suppose  it  was  your 
mistress,  and  she  sent  you' — 

'  My  mistress,  Sir  ?  I  would  have  you  to 
know.  Sir,  that  my  mistress  is  a  married  lady, 
Sir,  and  is  now — ay,  at  this  very  moment — in 
bed  and  asleep  with  her  husband,  Sir,  and  that's 
their  door,  Sir' — ^pointing  to  a  door  opposite, 
where  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  really  slept. 

'  Is  it  possible  ?"  exclaimed  the  gentleman. 
'  I  declare  I  can  hardly  credit  it— it  cannot  be  !' 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  307 

Then  calling  the  gar9on5  I  heard  him  ask,  in 
French,  who  slept  in  that  room — and  being 
satisfied  from  him,  that  it  really  was  '  a  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Anglais,  and  that  this  was  the  fille 
de  chambre  of  Madame — and  moreover,  that  the 
said  fille  slept  in  the  story  above,' — he  exclaimed, 
— '  Then  I  must  have  been  bewitched,  that's 
certain.' 

'  Will  you  please  to  give  me  the  rings  now, 
Sir,'  reiterated  Plait. 

'  What  rings,  my  good  woman  .?' 

'  The  rings.  Sir,  you  took  away  from  my 
room,  and  said  you  would  keep  for  a  relict 
of  me.' 

'  A  relict  of  you !'  he  exclaimed,  bursting 
into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  which  he 
renewed  again  and  again,  repeating — '  a  relict 
of  you !' 

'  Yes  !  a  relict  of  me  ! — Will  you  go  to  deny 
it ! — Will  you  say  you  did'nt,  when  I  have  it 
under  your  own  hand,  in  black  and  white— that 
you  would  keep  them  all  your  life,  for  a  relict  of 
me  ?  But  I  say  you  shan't  keep  no  such  relict 
of  me.' 

x2 


308  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

A  relic  of  you  ! — O  Lord  !    O  Lord  !'  and 
again  his  laughter  burst  forth. 

'  Ay  !  a  relict  of  me,  Sir  !  so  now  I'll  thank 
you  for  them  rings.' 

'  My  good  lady  !'  exclaimed  the  gentleman, 
almost  suffocated  with  laughter — '  I  took  no 
rings  from  your  room — if  your  room  it  was. 
All  that  I  did  take  for  a  relict  of  you' — and  here 
his  laughter  again  impeded  articulation—'  was 
this  old  red  garter  !' 

At  this  speech,  and  at  the  sight  of  a  bit 
of  red  ribbon  (dangling  from  his  finger  and 
thumb)  which  I  recognised  to  be  a  string  which 
I  used  for  tying  up  a  little  box,  I  had  great 
difficulty  to  restrain  my  own  disposition  to 
risibility. 

'And  you  are  perfectly  welcome  to  this 
'  relict  oi  you  again,'  he  continued,  as  soon  as 
he  could  speak — '  Pon  my  soul  you've  cured  me 
of  all  fancy  for  keeping  it.  Lord!  Lord! 
where  could  my  eyes  have  been  !  I  must  have 
been  walking  in  my  sleep,  and  it  was  all  a  dream !' 
'  It  was  no  dream  at  all,  Sir  !  The  rings 
are  gone,  and' — 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  309 

'  But  my  good  lady,  let  me  advise  you  as  a 
friend,  never  to  put  off  your  night  cap  day  nor 
night.  By  Jove  you  look  bewitching  in  it. 
Do  go  and  pat  it  on  again  !  do  !' 

He  ran  on  in  this  way,  regardless  of  Plait, 
who  by  this  time  was  in  a  great  rage,  and  who 
angrily  vociferated — 

'  Give  me  back  the  rings,  Sir !  Give  me 
back  the  rings  !"* — as  she  stuck  close  to  him,  and 
followed  him  into  his  room.  Though  their  voices 
now  attained  a  louder  key  every  moment,  their 
words  were  so  indistinct,  that  I  could  only  catch 
at  intervals,  amidst  the  din  of  war,  such  elegant 
vituperation  as — 'You  old  virago!'  'You 
audacious  woman !' — on  the  one  side,  and — 'You 
false-hearted  villain  !'  '  You  cheat  !'  '  You 
swindler  !' — on  the  other.  While — '  How  dare 
you.  Sir  !' — and — '  How  dare  you,  Maa'm  ! — 
were  bandied  about  between  them.  At  last, 
when  the  battle  was  at  the  loudest,  a  sudden 
calm  ensued,  and  presently,  after  some  apparently 
soft  and  amicable  conference  had  passed  between 
the  belligerent  powers,  Plait  issued  forth  from 
the  room,  apoligising  as  she  came,  while  I  heard 


SIO  TOURS  AND  TOWNS. 

him  at  the  door  again  courteously  offer  her  her 
supposed  red  garter,  which  she  rather  sharply 
rejected  as  '  being  none  of  her's  indeed.'  She 
brought  back  with  her,  however,  the  rings, 
which  were  taken  up  by  the  waiter  in  the  heat  of 
the  altercation,  from  the  candlestick  in  the  room, 
for  it  appeared  that  when  the  gentleman  left  my 
room,  he  had  taken  up  my  candlestick  instead 
of  his  own,  upon  which  I  must  have  left  the  rings 
last  night,— carelessly  enough,  certainly. 

The  relation  of  this  absurd  adventure  at 
breakfast,  you  may  suppose,  afforded  much 
amusement  to  Adeline  and  Colonel  Cleveland. 
The  latter  seemed  particularly  entertained  at 
my  having  persuaded  the  gentleman  that  he 
had  seen  Plait  instead  of  me.  You  may  suppose 
that  I  did  not  mention  the  cause  of  my  leaving 
my  room,  nor  own  that  the  silly  scrawl  he  wrote, 
contained  any  other  stuff  than  an  avowal  of  his 
having  taken  away  a  relic  of  me. 

A  crowded  market,  or  a  fair  abroad,  is 
always  an  amusing  sight;  but  the  market  of 
Berne  is  the  most  amusing  of  all.  The  bustle, 
the  jostling,  the  clamour,  the  buying  and  selling. 


TOURS  AND  TOWNS.  311 

and  drinking  and  smoking,  and  coquetting, — the 
pretty  rustic  and  uncouth  boors — but  above  all, 
the  endless  variety  of  costume  afforded  us  inex- 
pressible amusement.  The  men  in  Switzerland 
no  longer  wear  any  national  or  peculiar  costume, 
and  all  look  like  clowns.  The  women  still 
determinedly  adhere  to  the  grotesque,  but 
generally  becoming  dresses,  that  have  been 
handed  down  unchanged  for  a  succession  ol 
centuries.  Of  these  the  variety  is  most  extraor- 
dinary. In  a  little  country  like  Switzerland, 
there  are  at  least  thirty  distinctly  different 
costumes,  and  we  had  them  all  in  the  market  at 
Berne.  We  had  the  Canton  de  Vaud,  the  Canton 
of  Glaris,  of  Unterwald,  of  Schwitz,  of  Uri,  of 
Obergestelen,  of  Fribourg,  and  of  Lucerne — 
the  prettiest  of  them  all — besides  the  costumes 
of  Berne  itself;  and  finally,  we  saw  one  of 
those  famous  Guggisberg  '  Graces,*'  whose  kilts, 
(petticoats  they  cannot  be  called),  are  always 
considerably  above  the  knee,  displaying  the  red 
garter  and  substantial  calf.  But  the  pencil  only 
can  do  them  justice.     They  beggar  description. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


LAKES  AND  VALLIES. 


Down  in  a  vale,  on  a  summer's  day, 
All  the  lads  and  lasses  met  to  be  gay. 

D'Urfey. 

The  damsels  they  delight 
When  they  their  timbrels  smite. 
And  thereunto  dance  and  carol  sweet. 

Spenser. 


LETTER  XIII. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO    MRS.  BALCARRIS. 

Interlachen,  '^th  September. 

A  delightful  drive  of  four  hours  along  a  fine 
road,  and  through  a  rich  and  happy  country, 
brought  us  to  Thun,  a  little  town,  situated  at 


LAKES    AND    VALLIES.  313 

the  extremity  of  the  beautiful  lake  of  the  same 
name,  where  the  Aar  forms  its  noble  outlet. — 
High  on  a  rock  above  its  blue  expanse,  stands 
the  lordly  castle  of  Thun,  once  the  seat  of  the 
Counts  of  Thun,  and  after  the  extinction  of 
their  line,  of  the  Counts  of  Kyburg.  Accord- 
ing to  tradition,  it  has  been  the  scene  of  many 
a  romantic  and  tragic  incident,  as  well  as  of 
that  bloody  fratricide,  which  has  rendered  its 
name  memorable  in  history.*  The  castle  is  still 
in  perfect  preservation^  and  garrisoned  as  a 
fortress  by  some  Swiss  soldiers.  We  wandered 
all  over  it,  and  admired  the  beautiful  views  its 


*  But  however  famous  in  Swiss  story,  the  reader  may 
perhaps  never  have  heard  the  murderous  tale.  It  is  related 
that  Hartmann  and  Eberhard,  at  the  death  of  their  father, 
one  of  the  Counts  of  Kyburg,  disputed  the  succession. 
Alone,  unprotected,  and  confiding,  Eberhard,  with  the  view 
of  settHng  the  difference,  visited  his  brother,  who  loaded 
him  with  chains,  and  threw  him  into  a  dungeon.  Being 
liberated  by  the  command  of  the  all  powerful  Leopold  Duke 
of  Austria,  and  their  contending  claims  amicably  settled  by 
his  mediation  and  authority,  a  solemn  feast  was  held  in 
honour  of  their  reconciliation,  at  the  castle  of  Thun,  which 


314  LAKES    AND    VALLIES. 

towers  and  battlements  command  of  the  lake  and 
mountains. 

As  usual,  we  dined  at  twelve  o'clock  at  the 
Table  d'  Hote,  where  we  met  a  good  humoured 
large-made  Irish  Major  of  Dragoons,  a  young 
Lieutenant  of  the  Navy,  full  of  spirit  and 
enterprise,  and  a  most  superlative  Dandy — a 
perfect  Exquisite; — forming  the  trio  of  fellow 
travellers  I  had  waylaid  upon  the  stairs  at  Berne 
this  morning,  on  suspicion  of  one  of  them  being 
the  purloiner  of  my  rings.  The  dread  I  had  enter- 
tained of  encountering,  in  this  assemblage,  the 
true  Knight  of  the  Garter  and  Rings,  was 
relieved,  for  he  did  not  appear.  There  was  also 
a  quiet  common  place  sort  of  English  family. 


was  attended  by  all  the  knights  and  barons  of  the  surround- 
ing country.  During  the  banquet,  irritated,  it  is  said,  by 
the  insults  and  overbearing  insolence  of  Hartmann,  Eberhard 
drew  his  sword — a  murderous  conflict  ensued — and  in  the 
struggle,  having  reached  the  castle  stairs,  Eberhard  sheathed 
his  weapon  in  his  brother's  bosom,  whose  bleeding  corpse 
was  thrown  out  over  the  castle  walls  into  the  town. 

Editor. 


LAKES    AND    VALLIES.  315 

consisting  of  Papa,  Mamma,  two  young  ladies 
and  one  young  gentleman,  who  a  la  mode 
d' Angle terre,  never  spoke  excepting  a  few  low 
toned  necessary  words  to  each  other,  about  the 
dishes.  These,  with  ourselves,  made  up  a  party 
exclusively  composed  of  English  people,  at  a 
public  table  in  the  heart  of  Switzerland. 

After  dinner  we  embarked  in  a  pleasure 
boat,  to  row  twelve  miles  to  the  head  of  the 
beautiful  lake  of  Thun,  in  ancient  times  called 
the  lake  of  the  Vandals.  If,  as  is  said,  it 
derived  its  appellation  from  the  Vandals  having 
settled  on  its  borders,  I  must  say  they  were 
persons  of  much  taste,  and  little  deserved  that 
their  names  should  become  a  proverbial  epithet 
of  reproach  for  the  want  of  it.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  beauty  of  the  sail.  Behind  the 
rocky  shores,  richly  wooded  with  pine  and  birch, 
tower  on  one  side,  the  sublime  forms  of  the 
Stockhorn,  the  Gros  Eiger,  the  Bliimlis  Alp, 
and  the  Jungfrau,  covered  with  eternal  snows, 
and  rearing  their  mighty  summits  far  above  the 
clouds.  Lower  down  rises  from  the  lake,  the 
lofty  and  picturesque  pyramidal  mountain  of  the 


316  LAKES    AND    VALLIES. 

Niesen.  At  its  base,  your  eye  penetrates  far  up 
the  beautiful  vale,  down  which  the  Kander  pours 
its  wild  torrent  into  the  lake.*  The  ruins  of 
Gothic  castles,  to  which  tradition  attaches  many 
a  romantic  legend — the  abandoned  walls  of  '  the 
Golden  Court' — where  the  proud  Counts  of 
Stratlingen  once  held  their  magnificent  reign — 
the  mysterious  dungeons  and  subterranean  pas- 
sages said  still  to  remain  half  unexplored  around 
its  shattered  tower, — and  the  mouldering  vestiges 
of  the  castle  of  Spietz — awake  remembrances  of 
those  feudal  times  of  wild  warfare  and  romance, 
which  throw  a  charm  so  powerful  and  unde- 
finable  over  every  scene  to  which  they  are 
attached ;  more  especially  over  scenes  of  secluded 
beauty  and  grandeur,  such  as  this.  On  the 
opposite  side  of  the  lake,  our  boatmen  pointed 


*  It  is  an  artificial  channel.  The  Kander  used  to  fall 
into  the  Aar  below  Thun,  and  its  devastating  torrent  covered 
the  rich  plain  with  desolation.  Swiss  industry  formed  this 
short  cut  for  its  furious  tide  into  the  lake,  and  thus  preserved 
the  most  fertile  fields  of  Switzerland  from  destruction. 


LAKES    AND    VALLIES.  317 

out  a  mountain  cave,  the  inmost  recesses  of 
which  cannot  be  penetrated, — where,  according 
to  tradition,  in  the  sixth  century,  St.  Beat,  a 
British  hermit,  and  the  first  christian  in  Helvetia, 
lived  and  died.  A  fine  stream  of  pure,  and  of 
course  holy  water,  from  some  hidden  subter- 
ranean source,  flows  from  the  cave.  Near  this 
spot,  at  Merlingen,  vines  and  spreading  Spanish 
chesnuts  give*  a  richer  air  to  the  banks  of  the 
lake — while  the  rural  dwellings,  the  cultivated 
fields,  the  picturesque  villages,  the  beautiful 
vales  or  thals  opening  into  the  bosom  of  the 
mountains — the  rocks  and  wild  woods  on  the 
banks  of  the  lake — and  the  towering  mountains 
and  glaciers  far  above,  beaming  with  silver  lines  in 
the  summer  sun,  presented  so  enchanting  a  scene, 
as  our  little  gaily  painted  bark  glided  over  the 
bright  blue  sparkling  bosom  of  the  lake,  that  it 
was  with  regret  we  approached  the  head — where 
the  snowy  Alps  disappeared  below  the  lower 
but  nearer  elevation,  and  the  prospect  lost  much 
of  its  grandeur  and  its  charm.  Landing  at  the 
little  hamlet  of  Neuhaus,  we  got  into  a  common 
char,  or  long  cart,   furnished  with  slung  seats. 


318  LAKES    AND    VALLIES. 

the  sole  vehicle  of  this  part  of  the  country,  in 
which  we  trotted  away  through  Unterseen,*  and 
all  the  bustle  of  its  fair,  which  was  crowded  with 
sheep  and  cattle,  and  stalls,  and  busy  peasants 
in  their  gayest  holiday  costume.  Crossing  the 
wooden  bridge,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes 
imaginable  struck  our  delighted  sight.  We 
beheld  the  wide  clear  blue  stream  of  the  Aar, 
sweeping  round  a  majestic  precipice  of  rock;-— 
and  its  depth,  its  expanse,  its  beautiful  cerulean 
hue,  the  rushing  rapidity  of  its  course,  broken 
into  foaming  falls  by  crossing  wears,  its 
sides,  edged  with  mills  and  picturesque  wooden 
cottages — the  beautiful  valley  of  Interlachen, 
through  which  it  wanders,  covered  with  the 
bright  emerald  verdure  of  spring,  shaded  with 
gigantic  trees,  now  tinged  with  the  first  tints  of 
autumn,  and  bounded  with  high  rocks,  covered 
to  their  very  summits  with  woods  of  noble  pine 
trees, — the  snowy  heights  ol  the  sublime  Wetter- 


*  Originally  Unterstein  under  the  stone  or  precipice 
which  rises  above  it. 


LAKES    AND   VALLIES.  SlQ 

horn  and  Jungfrau,  caught  through  the  deep 
narrow  vales  openhig  to  the  right,  amidst  the 
Alps — altogether  presented  a  scene  of  such  varied 
beauty,  as  we  rode  up  this  enchanting  valley, 
that  the  most  vivid  imagination  can  picture 
nothing  approaching  to  the  reality.  It  is  a  spot 
which  must  remain  for  ever  engraven  on  the 
remembrance. 

Interlachen,  as  its  name  impKes — ^between  the 
lakes — ^is  a  vale  of  only  three  miles  in  extent, 
from  the  foot  of  the  lake  of  Brientz,  to  the  head 
of  the  lake  of  Thun.  It  is  watered  by  the 
romantic  Aar,  which  forms  the  outlet  of  the 
former,  and  the  inlet  of  the  latter  lake. 

Half  a  mile,  to  our  regret,  brought  us  to  the 
village  inn,  into  which,  however,  we  could  effect 
no  entrance;  for  the  door  was  encompassed  with 
a  crowd  of  peasants,  of  whom,  some  of  the  grey- 
headed, were  seated,  smoking  and  merrymaking — ■ 
but  by  far  the  greatest  part  were  waltzing  on  the 
green — with  a  spirit,  hilarity,  and  glee,  which  I 
never  saw  equalled.  The  interior  of  the  inn 
was  also  overflowing  with  waltzers,  and  their 
picturesque  and  uniform   costume  had  a  very 


3£0  LAKES   AND   VALLIES. 

pretty  effect  as  they  whirled  around  with  great 
celerity,  precision,  and  even  grace — to  the 
inspiring  music.  I  never  saw  people  so  extra- 
vagantly happy.  While  we  were  looking  on  at 
this  festive  scene,  to  my  extreme  surprise,  I 
suddenly  discovered,  peeping  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  peasants,  the  animated  laughing  counte- 
nance of  Lady  Hunlocke.  You  may  conceive 
our  mutual  satisfaction.  She  has  been  here  for 
three  weeks,  making  excursions  in  all  directions, 
with  her  usual  active  intrepidity,  generally 
accompanied  by  some  of  Lord  NorthclifF's 
family,  who  have  had  a  house  here  all  summer, 
but  have  set  off — though  only  this  morning — 
on  their  return  to  England.  She  declared  she 
was  just  longing  for  a  pleasant  companion  with 
whom  she  might  pursue  her  tour  of  the  Alps. 
It  was  soon  settled  that  she  should  join  our 
party,  and  she  is  to  accompany  us  to  Lauter- 
brunn,  where  we  proceed  to-morrow  evening, 
after  exploring  the  beauties  of  the  Lake  of 
Brientz  in  the  morning.  We  easily  found 
accommodation  at  one  of  the  Pensions  of  Inter- 
lachen,  where  Lady  Hunlocke  is  now  living,  and 


LAKES    AND    VALLIES.  321 

where  numbers  of  Swiss  from  the  Swiss  towns, 
as  well  as  foreigners,  come  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
of  summer.  After  tea  we  returned  to  look  at 
the  merry  dancers  at  the  inn.  Never  was  any 
thing  like  the  spirit  and  animation  of  their 
waltzing, — and  the  music  was  so  inspiring, 
that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  refrain  from 
whirling  about  along  with  them.  As  for  Lady 
Hunlocke,  unable  to  resist  it,  she  at  last  seized 
hold  of  me,  exclaiming — '  Almack''s  is  nothing 
to  this;  I  must  waltz,  Caroline  V — and  we  began 
to  spin  round  the  room  together  among  the 
peasants,  to  their  infinite  delight,  as  well  as  our 
own.  The  sobriety  of  the  whole  of  this  immense 
and  jovial  assembly,  astonished  me  not  a  little. 
They  were  intoxicated  only  with  the  pleasure 
of  the  whirling  dance.  Indeed  the  people  in 
the  Bernese  Oberland  are  habitually  or  neces- 
sarily so  sober,  that  their  ordinary  drink  is  milk 
and  water.  They  have  no  vines  for  wine,  and 
no  barley  to  spare  for  beer — consequently,  except 
on  great  occasions,  when  they  drink  the  exotic 
juice  of  the  grape,  or  take,  as  a  cordial,  their 
own     simple     home-made    cherry-water — they 

VOL.  I.  Y 


S!12  LAKES    AND    VALLIES. 

literally  take  nothing  but  these  primitive  beve- 
rages of  nature.  They  have  not,  even  like  the 
Tartars,  made  an  intoxicating  drink  from  fer- 
mented milk.  Cows'  milk,  indeed,  would  not 
answer  this  purpose  so  well  as  mares'  milk, 
being  much  less  saccharine  : — but  asses'  milk,  I 
should  suppose,  would  produce  Koumiss. 

Throughout  the  Protestant  canton  of  Berne, 
we  have  remarked,  with  admiration,  the  honest 
independent  pride,  and  happy  contented  air, 
of  the  hardy  robust  peasantry.  They  are 
almost  all  small  farmers — very  commonly  small 
landed  proprietors — and  they  form  the  great 
body  of  the  population  ;  for  there  are  few  above, 
and  still  fewer  below  them.  They  themselves  are 
the  labourers.  Even  the  women,  especially  the 
young  and  unmarried,  join  in  the  labours  of  the 
field,  apractise  which  gives  their  constitution  extra- 
ordinary health  and  vigour,  although  it  perhaps 
lessens  the  delicacy  of  their  beauty.  Poverty  or 
great  wealth  seems  alike  unknown  here.  A  man 
who  possesses  a  thousand  pounds  is  considered 
extremely  rich.  The  whole  country  does  not 
produce  a  beggar  :   and  it  is  truly  delightful  to 


LAKES    AND    VALLIES.  823 

behold  the  air  of  comfort,  plenty,   and  content- 
ment which  reigns  around  every  cottage. 

The  old  house  near  the  inn,  in  which  the 
peasants  were  dancing,  stands  on  the  site  of  the 
ancient  monastery  of  the  Augustines.  Never,  in 
their  days,  though  the  seat  of  immense  wealth 
and  luxury,  was  it  filled  with  such  happy 
inmates  as  we  now  beheld.  But  it  was  once  the 
scene  of  a  romantic  and  singular  event.  Eliza- 
beth, daughter  of  one  of  the  proud  Barons  of 
Switzerland,  was  destined  by  her  father  for  the 
cloister,  and  though  a  most  unwilling  victim, 
neither  prayers  nor  tears  could  move  his  stern 
nature  to  alter  her  doom.  But  when  brought  to 
the  altar  to  take  her  vows,  she  there  solemnly 
declared  she  never  would  utter  them — and 
publicly  avowed  her  long-cherished  attachment 
to  her  lover  Thomasen,  condemned,  like  herself, 
to  a  life  of  celibacy,  and  then  a  noviciate  in  the 
same  order.  He,  rushing  forward,  threw  himself 
at  her  feet,  and  the  eloquent  pleadings  of  the 
young  lovers  melted  the  hearts  of  the  assembled 
congregation,  and  even  of  the  priests,  by  whose 
mediation  the  obstacles  to  their  union  were  over- 
Y  2 


S£4  LAKES    AND    VALLIES. 

come,  and  they  were  united  to  each  other  at  the 
same  altar,  at  which  their  vows  of  cehbacy  and 
eternal  separation  were  to  have  been  made. 

The  union  of  Monks  and  Nuns  in  the  same 
convent,  or  at  least  under  the  same  roof,  in  later 
times  caused  such  scandalous  results,  and  their 
dissolute  lives  became  so  notorious,  that  the 
Pope  was  obliged  to  turn  out  the  Nuns,  being, 
I  suppose,  the  worst  of  the  two.* 

But  I  am  too  sleepy  to  write  another  word. — 
So  good  night. 


*  In  1431. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


SERENADES   AND   SINGING 
GIULS. 


What  man  art  thou  that  thus  bescreen'd  in  night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Then  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  interchanged  love  tokens  with  the  girl ; 
Thou  hast,  by  moonlight,  at  her  window  sung 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love, 
And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy. 

Shakspeare. 


LETTER  XIV. 

CAROLINE     ST.     CLAIR     TO    MRS.     BALCARRIS. 

Lauterhrunn,  Sth  September. 

An  adventure,  Georgiaiia  ! — a  real  romantic 
adventure, — and  such  an  adventure  !  Never  tell 
me  that  the  days  of  romance  are  gone  by  !  But 
you  shall  hear. 


5^6       SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 

I  was  awakened  last  night,  some  time  after  mid- 
night, from  my  sleep,  by  the  most  extraordinary 
and  enchanting  concord  of  human  voices  beneath 
my  window,  that  ever  surely  was  breathed.  At 
first  I  thought  myself  in  heaven — but  as  soon  as  I 
w^as  thoroughly  awake,  and  discovered  that  I  was 
only  at  Interlachen — 1  easily  conjectured  that  this 
entrancing  melody  arose  from  the  singing  girls 
of  this  valley,  of  whose  vocal  powers  I  had  heard 
so  much; — and  I  concluded  that  this  pleasure  had 
been  contrived  for  me  by  Lady  Hunlocke,  to 
whom  I  had  been  regretting,  during  the  evening, 
that  the  jubilee  of  the  fair  prevented  our  hearing 
these  celebrated  village  songsters. 

I  opened  my  window  and  looked  out.  It 
was  very  bright  moonlight.  The  singers  were 
not  visible,  but  from  the  sound  of  their  voices, 
it  was  evident  that  they  were  standing  imme^ 
diately  below  the  window,  under  the  broad 
projecting  wooden  shelf  or  roof  which  runs  round 
the  first  story  of  the  houses  in  the  Bernese  Alps. 
There  were  four  voices,  and  they  sang,  in  parts, 
a  great  variety  of  beautiful  airs,  with  German 
words, — at  least  such  German  Patois  as  the 
Bernese  speak. 


SERENADES   AND    SINGING    GIRLS.       3^7 

But  what  was  my  surprise,  after  a  pause,  to 
hear  one  fine  tenor  voice,  accompanied  with  some 
instrument,  sing  in  English  the  following  verses, 
all  of  which,  I  think,  excepting  two,  I  made  out, 
as  they  were  sung  very  distinctly  to  a  beautiful 
Italian  air,  and  the  unseen  musician,  after  a  few 
minutes  interval,  repeated  them  a  second  time : — 


THE  SERENADE. 

Sleep,  Lady,  sleep  !  those  bright  eyes  close  ! 

Trust  in  thy  lover's  care  ! 
He  wakes  to  guard  that  blest  repose, 

His  heart  can  never  share. 

Sleep,  Lady,  sleep  !  soft  be  thy  rest ! 

O  may'st  thou  never  feel 
The  pangs  that  wring  this  tortur'd  breast, 

Pangs  that  no  time  can  heal! 


Lady  !  my  love  shall  ne'er  be  told, 
Deep  buried  in  my  heart, 

Still — vulture  like,  it  keeps  its  hold. 
And  but  with  life  shall  part. 


3^8       SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 

Life's  chequer'd  lot  of  gloom  and  light, 

Divided  may  we  share  ! 
Thine  be  its  sunshine — cloudless,  bright, 

Mine,  must  its  long  storm  bear  ! 


Source  of  my  grief!  yet  cherish'd  more 
Than  all  this  heart  holds  dear, 

Still,  ev'n  on  earth's  remotest  shore 
Thy  image  shall  be  near. 

Still,  while  life  lasts — ^by  fancy  taught 

Thy  angel  form  I'll  see. 
In  dreams  of  bliss — (enchanting  thought !) 

Still  think  it  smiles  on  me. 

Still,  still  shall  vibrate  on  my  ear 
Thy  harp's  harmonious  tone — 

In  strains  that  list'ning  angels  hear — 
In  sweetness  all  thy  own. 

To  watch  thy  gentle  steps  from  far 

My  sorrows  shall  assuage ; 
Thou  art  the  solitary  star 

That  lights  life's  pilgrimage. 

From  thee,  from  thee  my  bursting  heart 

No  mortal  power  can  sever — 
Outcast  of  hope  !  from  joy  apart — 

Yet  I  am  thine  for  ever  1 


SERENADES'  AND    SINGING    GIRLS.       329 


Perchance  beyond  the  silent  tomb, 
The  bliss  may  yet  be  given 

Denied  me  here ; — sever'd  on  earth, 
We  may  be  join'd  in  heaven  ! 


A  rustling  among  the  leaves  of  the  old  walnut 
tree,  that  grows  before  the  house,  attracted  my 
attention  to  it,  and  I  then  saw  distinctly  the 
tall  figure  of  a  man,  enveloped  in  a  long  dark 
military  cloak,  standing  under  the  thick  shade 
of  its  branches.  He  must  have  enjoyed  an 
excellent  view  of  me  in  my  night-cap,  as  I  stood 
at  the  open  window,  listening  to  the  invisible 
musician ;  for  the  moon  shone  exactly  upon  the 
house,  while  its  beams,  coming  behind  the  great 
walnut  tree,  threw  the  spot  where  he  stood 
beneath  its  thick  spreading  drooping  branches, 
into  the  deepest  shade.  I  instantly  closed  the 
window,  but  concealed  myself  behind  the  curtain, 
so  as  I  could  watch  his  movements  unobserved, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  I  saw  him  emerge  from 
the  tree,  and  slowly  leave  the  spot,  his  looks 
fixed  on  the  house.  His  dress  and  air  proved 
him   to   be   an   Englishman,   and    decidedly  a 


350      SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 

gentleman.  Of  both  these  points  I  could  have 
no  doubt,  and  yet  this  sentimental  sort  of 
serenade  was  so  unHke  the  plain  rational  pro- 
ceedings of  our  countrymen,  that  I  could  not 
tell  what  to  think  of  it.  It  was  clear,  however, 
that,  by  a  strange  fatahty,  it  had  been  my  fate, 
twice  in  the  same  day — morning  and  evening — 
to  be  seen  by  two  young  handsome  Englishmen, 
in  my  night-cap.  They  were  not  the  same  men, 
of  that  I  am  certain ;  he  of  the  evening  being 
of  loftier  stature  and  demeanour,  and  much 
more  thin  and  '  pale,  and  gentlemanlike,'  than 
he  of  the  morning.  In  my  exhibition  of  the 
morning,  however,  when  shewn  by  bougie  light, 
I  flatter  myself  I  passed  myself  for  the  demure 
Plait ; — and  in  my  exhibition  of  the  night,  '  by 
the  pale  moonlight,'  I  do  suppose  I  passed  for 
the  lively  Lady  Hunlocke;  for  whom — (she 
may  say  what  she  will) — this  serenade  must 
undoubtedly  have  been  intended,  because  no 
other  EngKsh  lady  is  an  inmate  of  the  house 
excepting  herself;  and,  heaven  knows,  I  have 
no  lover  at  Interlachen,  nor  indeed  any  where  else, 
except  it  be  poor  old  Lord  Lumbercourt — so 


SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS*       331 

that  it  could  not  be  meant  for  me,  though  I  got 
the  sole  benefit  of  it. 

Now  Lady  Hunlocke,  with  all  her  wit,  and 
humour,  and  gaiety,  is  so  little  like  a  person 
adapted  for  this  despairing  sort  of  sentimental 
invocation — since  every  body  who  knows  her  might 
be  certain  she  would  do  nothing  but  laugh  at 
such  flighty  heroics — that  I  cannot  but  think 
the  man  must  be  a  fool  to  take  this  mode  of 
melting  her  obdurate  heart.  And  yet  he  really 
looked  very  interesting — it  is  a  pity  she  did  not 
see  him.  But  for  the  apparition  of  the  man, 
and  the  tenor  of  the  verses — which  certainly  she 
would  neither  write  herself  nor  adopt — I  should 
have  supposed  the  whole  to  have  been  a  con- 
trivance of  her  own,  to  play  a  trick  upon 
me.  But  when  we  met  at  breakfast,  I  was 
compelled  to  acquit  her  of  all  art  or  part 
in  the  contrivance  of  the  affair ;  so  convincing 
was  her  surprise,  and  so  evident  her  igno- 
rance respecting  it.  But  great  was  her  curiosity  ; 
she  declared  she  would  give  the  world  to 
know  who  this  serenader  was,  and  to  have  seen 
liim  ; — and  scolded  me  extremely  for  not  having 


33^       SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 

called  her  up  to  listen  to  the  music,  which  she 
had  never  heard  ;  for  her  room,  it  seems,  as  well 
as  that  of  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland,  is  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  house — no  bed-room  windows 
looking  to  the  side  the  serenader  chose,  excepting 
mine  and  Plait's — so  that  it  was  agreed,  on  all 
hands,  that  as  Plait  and  I  alone  profited  by  it, 
we  must  divide  the  honour  of  the  said  serenade 
between  us.  What  swain  Plait  may  have  I 
cannot  pretend  to  say — certain  it  was  she  mani- 
fested the  most  hard-hearted  insensibility  to  his 
melting  strains ;  for  she  said  '  she  heard  some 
singing,  and  got  up  and  looked  out,  but  seeing 
nothing,  she  went  to  bed  again  directly,  and 
*  Me'm,''  observed  Plait,  '  I  supposed  it  was  only 
some  of  them  dancing  peas-hens,^  doubtless  she 
meant  Paysannes)^  '  singing  in  their  cups  down 
stairs.' 

We  could  not,  however,  make  out,  on 
enquiry,  that  it  was  any  of  the  peas-hens, 
as  Plait  calls  them,  or  peasants  of  Inter lachen, 
who  were  singing.  The  four  singing  peasant 
girls,  who  usually  perform  to  strangers,  sang  to 
us  this   morning — but  positively   denied,   with 


SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS.       33S 

every   mark   of  veracity,    that   they  had   been 
singing  under  our  window,  or  any  where  else, 
last    night ;     having,    on    the    contrary,    been 
waltzing  most  indefatigably    till    three   in   the 
morning.     But  that  the  first  singing  I  heard — 
the  German  songs — were  sung  by  some  female 
peasants  of  this  neighbourhood,  I  cannot  doubt, 
— the  style  of  music,  which  is  extremely  singular, 
and  even  some  of  the  airs,  being  precisely  the 
same  as  those  we  heard  this  morning.     Lady 
Hunlocke^s    indefatigable  enquiries   also  ascer- 
tained that  an  Italian  music-master  of  Berne,  of 
the  name  of  Paccherotti,  who  had  been  engaged 
here  for  some  weeks,  in  giving  lessons  to  Lord 
Northcliffe's  family — did  not  set  off  for  Berne 
until  this  morning  early  ;  and  she  has  no  doubt 
he  was  the  person  who  sung  the  English  verses, 
as  he  understands  English  very  well,  having  lived 
some  years  in  London.     But  who  then  was  the 
man  under  the  tree  ?     He  must  have  been  the 
person  who  set  Paccherotti  and  the  singing  girls 
to  work — for  never  would  they  have  begun  to 
sing  of  themselves, — and  nobody  can  make  out 
who  this  mysterious  man  was.     Lady  Hunlocke 


334       SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 

declares  she  never  has  been  once  serenaded  during 
the  whole  time  of  her  stay  at  Interlachen,  nor 
indeed  '  in  this  mortal  world"* — that  she  knows  no 
Englishman,  nor  any  other  man  of  any  kind 
here — and  that  she  is  quite  certain  the  serenade 
could  not  be  intended  for  her.  No  English 
gentleman,  it  seems,  slept  at  the  inn  last  night, 
nor  can  Lady  Hunlocke's  industrious  inquiries 
elicit  that  there  was  any  such  man  either  at  this 
pension  or  the  other,  or  at  any  house  in  the 
whole  valley. 

We  remembered,  that  as  Lady  Hunlocke  and 
I  were  walking  by  moonlight  yesterday  evening, 
and  talking  of  the  disappointment  of  not  hearing 
the  singing  girls,  I  had  seen,  indistinctly,  the 
tall  figure  of  a  man  among  the  trees  and  bushes, 
very  near  to  us,  and  apparently  watching  us ; 
but  when  I  mentioned  it  to  her,  and  we  turned 
to  look  again,  he  was  no  longer  visible.  They 
all  rallied  me  unmercifully,  maintaining  that  this 
serenade  was  obviously  meant  for  me — that  it 
was  either  the  dandy  or  the  Irish  officer,  who 
must  have  been  captivated  with  me  at  dinner  time, 
at  the  Table  d'  Hote,  at  Thun — though  they  cer- 


SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS.       335 

tainly  seemed  struck  only  with  the  charms  of 
the  mutton  and  the  chickens ; — or  perhaps  the 
silent  youth,  who  spoke  only  to  his  mamma — or 
else  the  knight  of  the  rings,  who  having  fallen  in 
love  with  me  in  my  night-cap  in  the  morning, 
had  come  back  to  have  another  glance  at  me  in 
the  same  costume,  at  night ;  and  it  was,  at  last, 
agreed  unanimously  by  the  rest  of  the  party, 
that  the  serenader  must  be  this  said  knight — 
though  I  am  certain  it  was  not. 

'  But  what  a  despairing  ditty  it  is  !^  exclaimed 
Lady  Hunlocke.  '  What  a  bewailing  the  man 
keeps  up ;  I  never  saw  such  a  faint-hearted 
creature.  Ifs  a  pity  he  couldn't  pluck  up  a 
little  more  spirit.  He  seems  determined  to  be 
miserable,  and  worCt  have  any  hope.  What  did 
you  do  to  him,  Caroline,  in  your  night-cap,  to 
make  him  so  desperate  'f  Then  she  run  on, 
criticising  the  unlucky  verses  with  her  charac- 
teristic liveliness,  reading  them  aloud  in  scraps, 
with  annotations,  by  no  means  sentimental. 
"  Sleep  lady,  sleep,*"  she  began, '  when  he's  doing 
every  thing  he  can  to  keep  you  awake  !  Now 
that's  quite  consistent — -just  like  these  poets  !' 


336      SERENADES    AND    SINGING    GIRLS. 


He  wakes  to  guard  that  sweet  repose, 
His  heart  can  never  know. 


I'll  engage  he  had  an  excellent  nap  after   it, 
though — 

Lady,  my  love  shall  ne'er  be  told  ! 

'  What  a  story,  when  he  is  telling  you  it  all  the 
time/  '  O,  I  understand !  now — ^he  must  mean  cold 
— you  mistook  the  word,  '  his  love  will  never  be 
cold"* — always  hot,  hot — ^hot — hot — as  the  man 
says,  when  he  calls  '  hot  mutton  pies.'  Whaf  s 
all  this  about  sharing  the  light  and  darkness  be- 
tween you  ? — I  don't  understand  that.  O  !  he 
meant  that  you  should  stand  in  the  moon — 
moonlight  I  mean — and  he  in  the  shade. — You 
at  the  window  and  he  under  the  walnut  tree. — 
'  Sunshine  !'  he  means  moonshine.  It's  all  a 
matter  of  moonshine.' 
'  Well,  what's  next .?' 

To  earth's  remotest  shore. 

That  must  mean  Botany  Bay.     That's  one 
way  to  be  transported  to  be  sure — and  a  much 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        337 

more  sure  method  than  the  way  lovers  are 
transported  generally.' 

'A  much  more  permanent  mode  of  being 
transported  too,'  I  observed — 'for  then  they 
are  sure  of  being  transported  for  seven  years  at 
least,  if  not  for  life ;  whereas,  perhaps,  they 
would  only  be  transported  by  their  love  for  as 
many  hours.' 

'  The  only  difference  is,"*  continued  Lady  Hun- 
locke,  'that  the  convicts  get  into  the  hulks — and 
the  lovers  into  the  sulks: — but  this  swain  of  yours 
is  not  in  the  sulks  yet,  Caroline,  for  he  says  he 
will  think  '  you  still  smile  upon  him.'  O  you 
httle  flirt ! — So  you  must  have  smiled  upon  him 
in  your  night-cap,  you  know  you  must  He  has 
let  out  the  secret. 

Your  harp's  harmonious  tone. 

Now  that's  clearly  you — nobody  else  plays  on 
the  harp.  But  when  did  you  play  to  him  ? 
And  if  he  never  saw  you  but  in  your  night- 
cap, how  came  he  to  know  you  were  so  famous 
for  playing  the  harp?    Well!  I  can  make  nothing 

VOL.    I.  z 


388        SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

of  him,  except  that  he's  the  most  lachrymal 
person  I  ever  heard  of.  He  seems  quite  deter- 
mined to  give  you  no  hope  of  getting  him, 
however — in  this  world;  for  he  says  you  are 
only  to  be  united  in  heaven,  where  he  ought  to 
know  there  is  '  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage.' 

Still,  however,  her  curiosity  was  unsatisfied, 
and  she  again  set  on  foot  every  possible  enquiry 
respecting  the  singing  girls,  the  singing  man, 
and  the  '  walnut  tree  watchman,'  as  she  called 
the  Unknown  in  the  cloak.  But  in  vain.  No 
light  whatever  could  be  thrown  upon  this 
mysterious  serenade — so  we  walked  away  to 
Unterseen,  and  paid  a  visit  to  '  the  beauty' — 
who  well  deserves  the  name.  She  was  renowned 
before  her  marriage  as  '  La  belle  Bateliere'— 
for  women  are  the  hositmen  here ;  and  an  album, 
full  of  the  names  and  praises  of  strangers,  record 
the  visitors  and  the  charms  of  the  fair  Elizabeth. 
She  is  unaffectedly  modest,  and  the  fine  oval 
contour  of  her  face — her  beautiful  regular 
features — ^her  soft  eyes,  shaded  with  long  dark 
eye   lashes — her   expressive   countenance — her 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        339 

blooming  complexion — ^her  fine  hair  and  com- 
manding graceful  figure,  with  her  native  ele- 
gance of  manner — might  have  graced  any 
Court  of  Europe,  instead  of  being  buried  in 
a  humble  village  shop,  amongst  Swiss  boors. 
She  had  a  lovely  smiling  baby  in  her  arms,  on 
which  she  gazed  with  all  a  mother's  fondness. 
Her  husband,  a  coarse  vulgar  man,  seems  to 
make  a  lucrative  traffic  by  exhibiting  her  beauty, 
and  selling  his  goods  to  every  person  who  comes 
to  see  her,  at  whatever  price  his  conscience 
allows  him  to  impose. 

On  our  return  to  Interlachen,  we  mounted 
the  char  which  was  waiting,  and  trotted  off  to 
the  lake  of  Brientz,  on  which  we  embarked, 
and  were  rowed  by  some  lively  young  Bernese 
Paysannes,  nearly  eight  miles,  to  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  head  of  the  lake,  which  is  ex- 
tremely fine.  The  bold  promontories  of  rock, 
crowned  with  wood,  gracefully  stretching  for- 
ward into  the  lake — the  steep  woody  mountain 
which  forms  its  head,  rising  from  the  water — 
the  rural  villages  and  orchards,  and  ripening 
harvests,  covering  its  shores — have,  perhaps,  a 
z2 


540        SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

character  of  less  sublimity  than  scenes  in 
Switzerland  usually  possess,  but  of  the  most 
giatifying  beauty. 

We  landed  on  the  shore  to  visit  the 
Giesbach,  the  finest  cascade  in  this  country 
of  waterfalls  ;  and  as  we  climbed  up  the 
long  steep'  winding  path  amongst  the  wood 
which  leads  to  it,  we  were  regaled  with  the 
mellifluous  sounds  of  the  Alpine  horn,  which 
awakened  all  the  mountain  echoes  around  '  most 
musically.'  This  horn  is  at  least  five  feet  in 
length.  Its  notes  ceased  when  we  reached  the 
fall,  or  rather  the  falls — for  a  long  succession  of 
cascades,  from  an  immense  height,  precipitate 
their  foaming  waters  amongst  rocks  and  over- 
hanging woods.  While  we  sat  wrapt  in  admi- 
ration of  this  romantic  scene,  a  party  of  singing 
girls  of  Brientz,  began  their  wildly  beautiful 
strain,  and  sang  a  great  variety  of  their  national 
airs,  with  astonishing  expression,  truth,  and 
science.  The  enthusiasm  and  delight  they 
seemed  to  feel,  communicated  itself  to  us.  I 
could  have  listened  to  them  all  day.  I  never 
heard  any  music  so  sweet,   so  strange,   so  beau- 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        341 

tifully  expressive.  Nothing  else  bears  the 
smallest  resemblance  to  the  singing  of  these 
Swiss  peasants.  It  is  precisely  the  same  as 
that  which  struck  me  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night ;  the  effect  of  which  I  shall  never  forget. 
The  notes  of  the  treble  voice  of  these  fair 
singers,  resemble  the  high  tones  of  a  flageolet, 
more  than  the  human  voice.  The  universal 
and  exquisite  taste  of  the  Bernese  peasants,  and 
indeed  of  all  the  German  Swiss  for  music,  affords 
a  curious  contrast  to  their  countrymen  in  the 
French  cantons — where,  when  they  begin  to 
sing,  you  long  to  stop  your  ears  and  run  away. 
Indeed  nothing  but  a  stretch  of  politeness  could 
enable  one  to  keep  one''s  seat,  when  any,  even  of 
the  fashionables  of  the  Canton  de  Vaud,  favour 
one  with  a  song  at  their  soirees. 

At  the  conclusion  of  one  of  the  songs  of  the 
peasant  girls,  a  shrill  v/histle  sounded  from  the 
woods,  and  one  of  the  girls  darted  away — we 
supposed  to  meet  her  lover.  She  soon  returned, 
and  eagerly  asked  me  to  sing,  in  which  request 
they  all  joined.  How  they  happened  to  guess 
that  I  sang,  surprised  me  not  a  little ;  and  when 


342        SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

I  attempted  to  excuse  myself  by  saying  '  I  did 
not  know  what  to  sing,'  the  girl  instantly  named 
one  of  my  most  favourite  songs,  a  beautiful  air 
of  Mozart,  and  asked  me  if  I  could  sing  that  ? 

I  sung  it,  and  at  its  conclusion,  the  last 
words,  '  sempre  amor,**  were  thrice  repeated 
from  the  woods,  until  the  sound  died  away  in 
distance. 

'  Ah  !  that's  your  lover  !'  I  said,  in  German, 
to  the  little  laughing  Paysanne  who  had  ran 
off  before. 

'  No — yours  V  she  replied  archly  ;  but  by  no 
questions  or  intreaties  could  I  gain  from  her  any 
other  explanation  of  this  strange  expression  ; 
except  the  half  laughing  declaration  that  it  must 
he  my  lover,  because  it  was  not  hers. 

'But  you  have  a  lover,  I  am  sure  !'  I  said. 

Her  sun-burnt  cheeks  blushed  a  deeper  crim- 
son, at  this  speech,  and  she  laughed,  and  her 
companions  laughed,  and  said,  '  Oh  yes  ! — she 
has  a  sweet-heart — but  he's  very  busy  with  his 
father's  harvest,  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  a 
long  way  off.' 

'  But  who  is  it,  then,  that  sang  j  ust  now 
from  the  wood .?'     I  again  asked. 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.       343 

'  Why  who  else  should  it  be  but  your 
English  lover  ?'  they  exclaimed,  laughing. 

'  But  how  did  he  get  there  ?'  I  persisted. 

'  Perhaps  he  had  hid  himself  in  the  woods, 
to  listen  to  me,  singing."* 

'  But  why  can't  he  come  out  and  shew  him- 
self.'^"' I  said. 

'  Well  I   they  wondered  he  did'nt.' 

'  Do  go  and  ask  him  to  come.  Tell  him  we 
beg  to  have  his  company  ;'  I  exclaimed. 

'  Do  you  go  !'  she  said  laughing. 

'  With  you  I  will  go  !'  I  replied — and  to 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland's  amazement,  who 
did  not  understand  a  word  we  had  been  saying, 
off  set  the  little  Paysanne  and  I  into  the  thickest 
of  the  wood,  as  fast  as  we  could  run. 

But  'her  lover,"*  or  'mine,'  or  whoever  he 
might  be,  probably  hearing  our  approach,  was 
too  nimble  for  us.  A  crashing  of  the  branches 
reached  our  ears,  and  the  evident  marks  of 
breaking  through  the  bushes,  soon  shewed  us 
where  he  whom  we  sought,  had  forced  himself 
down  the  precipitous,  but  tangled  side,  of  the 
woody  banks  below.     Not  wishing,  by  further 


344       SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

pursuit,  to  be  the  cause  of  ending  this  lover's 
leap  with  the  catastrophe  of  a  broken  neck,  we 
returned  to  our  party,  breathless  with  our 
chase.  All  my  inquiries  were  vain.  The  girls 
acknowledged  that  they  knew  the  man  who  fled 
from  us,  but  they  would  give  me  no  information 
whatever  respecting  him,  although  I  was  led  to 
believe  that  it  was  their  brother,  whose  house  is 
near,  and  who  probably  did  not  choose  to  be 
seen  in  his  working  dress,  as  he  is  a  schoolmaster, 
but  labours  like  his  scholars  during  the  harvest. 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland,  and  I,  descended 
the  hill,  and  again  embarked.  Our  fair  boat- 
women  hoisted  their  sail,  and  a  favouring  breeze 
carried  us  down  the  lake  again  in  little  more 
than  an  hour's  time. 

We  dined  at  Interlachen  with  Lady  Hun- 
locke,  and  immediately  afterwards,  accompanied 
by  her,  again  mounted  a  char,  and  had  a  short 
but  beautiful  drive  up  the  romantic  vale  of 
Lauterbrunn,  which  far  surpassed  all  that  I  had 
heard  of  its  scenery.  This  narraw  verdant  vale, 
down  which  the  Lutschine  pours  its  crystal 
stream,  is  bounded  on  either  side  by  lofty  preci- 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        345 

pices  of  rock,  beautifully  clothed  with  wood,  of 
most  extraordinary  height,  down  which  innu- 
merable Alpine  cascades  pour  their  roaring 
streams.  In  many  instances  these  natural  walls 
rise  to  upwards  of  a  thousand  feet  in  perpen- 
dicular elevation.  Beneath  them,  picturesque 
cottages  and  hamlets  are  scattered  about  the 
valley,  under  the  shade  of  spreading  trees. — 
High  on  a  rock,  embosomed  in  wood,  and 
backed  by  woody  precipices  rising  far  above  it, 
stand  the  ruins  of  the  chateau  of  Unspunnen. 
At  the  point  where  the  vales  of  Lauterbrunn 
and  Grindelwald  unite,  and  the  black  Lutschine 
mingles  its  dark  waters  with  the  Lutschine 
Blanche,  there  is  an  inscription  on  the  face  of 
an  immense  rock,  by  the  way  side,  recording 
that  at  this  spot,  one  of  the  Counts  of  Unspunnen 
murdered  his  father.  The  parricide  lied,  and 
according  to  tradition,  perished  among  the 
mountains,  of  hunger,  which  none  would  pity 
or  relieve.  It  is  supposed  that  Lord  Byron 
meant  this  castle  for  the  scene  of  Manfred,  from 
its  vicinity  to  the  Jungfrau,  and  the  sublime 
views  it  commands  of  that  mighty  queen  of 
the  Alps. 


346        SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

But  the  most  striking  feature  of  this  Alpine 
valley,  is  the  grand  and  varied  mountains  which 
terminate  the  view.  On  the  left,  the  Hiinnen- 
flue,  like  a  tremendous  castle  of  solid  rock,  rears 
its  towering  summit — a  fortress  of  nature  ;  its 
circular  platform  is  thickly  covered  with  pine- 
trees,  which,  from  their  extreme  height,  look 
like  a  dark  belt  drawn  round  it ;  the  rocky 
mountain  of  Meunerr,  projecting  its  bold  craggy 
point  forward,  contrasts  beautifully  with  the 
sparkling  snows  of  the  Pratehorn,  one  of  the 
heights  of  the  Jungfrau — while  the  highest 
silver  summit  of  the  Jungfrau  herself,  far  above 
all  these  majestic  mountains,  closes  the  scene. 

We  walked  on  a  few  paces,  from  the  little  inn 
of  Lauterbrunn,  to  the  foot  of  the  cascade  of 
the  Staubbach,  which  falls  from  a  height  of 
eight  hundred  feet,  and  which,  though  the  most 
celebrated  in  Switzerland,  we  did  not  think 
worth  looking  at.  A  small  streamlet  runs  over 
the  ledge  of  a  flat  bare  precipice  of  immense 
height,  wholly  unshaded  by  trees  or  vegetation, 
— looking  exactly  like  the  spout  of  a  tea-kettle 
emptying  its  contents.  Long  before  this  little 
driblet  reaches  the  ground,  it  is  dissipated  in 


SERENADES   AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        347 

vapour — and  this  is  held  to  be  its  grand  beauty. 
Its  name  signifies,  that  it  is  the  fall  of  « the 
dust  of  the  water.'  This  vale  is  full  of 
waterfalls  of  the  same  character. 

Enchanted  with  the  scenery  of  Lauterbrunn, 
Lady  Hunlocke  and  I  determined  to  drive 
on  in  the  char  to  the  top  of  the  vale,  which 
from  this  point  was  new  to  her.  Colonel 
and  Mrs.  Cleveland  remained  at  the  inn,  being 
tired  of  the  rough  jolting  of  the  char  ;  and  the 
prospect  of  drinking  tea,  having  more  charms 
for  them  than  any  other  prospect,  at  this 
moment.  As  we  advanced,  the  scene  assumed  a 
wilder  and  more  savage  character.  The  rocks 
became  more  naked  and  threatening,  the  trees 
fewer  and  bowed  by  the  storms,  and  the  torrent's 
roar  more  loud  and  furious.  Near  the  top  we  left 
the  char,  and  walked  up  to  the  glacier  which 
closes  the  vale,  and  from  which  rushes  forth  the 
Lutschine,  the  wild  stream  which  waters  it. 

The  glacier  itself  is  dirty,  and  has  no  cas- 
telated  towers  or  pyramids  of  ice,  like  most 
glaciers; — ^but  a  wilder,  more  striking  scene,  than 
that  which  now  surrounded  us,  as  we  stood  upon 


348       SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

its  sullen  snows,  can  scarcely  be  imagined.  The 
glacier  is  but  the  lowest  footstep  of  that  tremen- 
dous snowy  mountain,  the  sublime  Jungfrau,  at 
whose  base  we  stood,  and  to  whose  proud 
summit  we  could  scarcely  raise  our  eyes. 
Inaccessible  to  the  foot  of  man- -untrodden  from 
creation — its  hoary  sides,  which  never  bore  a 
blade  of  vegetation,  are  hung  round  with  heavy 
glaciers  and  unfathomable  depths  of  frozen 
snows.  If — feeling  our  own  littleness,  thus 
placed  beneath  its  awful  grandeur,  we  turned 
our  eyes  down  the  vale — tremendous  precipices 
of  rock  and  mountain  heights  towering  far  above 
them,  shut  out  our  view — leaving  us  no  prospect 
but  of  the  circle  of  utter  desolation  in  which  we 
stood.  On  one  side,  high  perched  on  the  moun- 
tain's green  shelving  height,  but  directly  above 
a  terrific  precipice,  we  descried  a  chalet,  to  which 
there  appeared  no  path  but  the  wild  waterfall 
that  fell  in  a  long  line  from  it,  foaming  down  the 
face  of  the  rock.  On  every  side  cascades  pouring 
down  the  precipices,  mingled  with  the  roar  of 
the  torrent  of  the  valley  that  burst  forth  from 
its  icy  prison  at  our  feet.     The  lone  and  appa- 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.       349 

rently  inacessible  solitude  in  which  we  stood,  as 
the  shades  of  evening  began  to  gather  round 
us ;  the  scream  of  the  wild  eagle,  or  perhaps  the 
still  more  terrific  lammergeyer — the  vulture  of 
the  Alps,  that  echoed  from  the  cliffs  above^-- 
the  mingled  voices  of  the  wild  waterfalls,  and 
the  loud  thunder  of  the  avalanches  that  fell 
from  the  glaciers  of  the  Jungfrau  far  above  us — 
had  an  effect  more  sublime  and  terrible,  than 
imagination  can  conceive.  The  horrible  bird  of 
prey,*  whose  wild  scream  we  heard,  we  were 
told  once  carried  off  an  infant  from  a  little  village 
above  the  fall  of  the  Saubbach,  and  ahghted 
with  it  upon  an  inaccessible  rock,  on  the  side  of 
the  Jungfrau,  where  some  tattered  rags  of  its 
clothes  are  yet  to  be  seen.  What  must  have 
been  the  maddening  agonies  of  its  unfortunate 
mother ! 

At  a  Swiss  cottage,  by  the  torrent's  side, 
we  found  the  people  carefully  stripping  off  all 


•  Called  Lammergeyer,  from  its  prey  being  generally 
lambs. 


350        SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS. 

the  leaves  from  the  forest  trees,  and  laying 
them  out  to  dry  on  cloths — to  serve  their  cattle 
for  food  as  well  as  fodder,  in  winter.  The  moon 
rose  as  we  set  out  on  our  return,  and  by  its  silver 
light,  the  valley  assumed  a  totally  new  and  still 
more  romantic  character. 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  had  taken 
possession  of  the  only  bed-room  vacant  in  the 
little  inn.  Lady  Hunlocke  and  I,  therefore, 
begged  for  quarters  at  the  cottage  of  the  village 
Pastor — who,  like  all  the  other  Ministers  in 
Protestant  Switzerland,  still  preserves  the  simple 
patriarchal  custom  of  extending  his  hospitality 
to  strangers, — for  which,  of  course,  those  who 
can  afford  it,  leave  upon  the  table  a  gratuity 
fully  equal  to  what  they  Avould  have  paid  at 
an  inn;  because  the  frugal  stipend  of  these 
respectable  Clergymen  could  ill  afford  the 
expense  of  entertaining  the  travellers  to  whom 
their  house  is  a  most  welcome  asylum.  Indeed, 
in  winter,  the  little  inn  of  this  valley  is  shut  up, 
the  innkeeper  and  his  family  gone ;  so  that 
there  is  no  other  place  of  refuge  for  any  stranger 
whom  chance  or  necessity  may  bring  here.     I 


SERENADES  AND  SINGING  GIRLS.        351 

was  not  sorry  for  this  opportunity  of  spending 
the  evening  with  the  family  of  a  Swiss  Pastor. 
We  found  them  very  amiable — and  very  musical. 
But  for  this  last  resource,  poor  Lady  Hunlocke 
would  have  been,  as  she  said,  ennuyee  a  la  mort 
— for  they  spoke  little  or  no  French — she  no 
German.  I  found  the  Pastor  himself  a  most 
intelligent  and  agreeable  person,  and  gained  a 
great  deal  of  interesting  information  from  him 
respecting  the  condition  and  habits  of  the  people. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS. 


The  chalet  will  be  gained  within  an  hour. 


-Hark !  the  note. 


The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed ; 

For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 

A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 

Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  ;- 

My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. 


-Who  is  here 


Who  seems  not  of  our  trade  ? 

The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers ;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell. 
— —I  am  giddy  !  Lord  Byron. 


LETTER  XV. 

CAROLINE  ST.  CLAIR  TO  MRS.  BALCARRIS. 

Grindelwald,  Sth  September. 

Early  this  morning.  Colonel  Cleveland  and 
I  breakfasted,  and  set  off  for  Grindelwald,  over 
the  Wengern  Alp,  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying 


MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS.        353 

the  sublime  views  that  pass  affords  of  the  Jung- 
frau,  which  from'^hence  alone  can  be  seen  in  full 
perfection.  Lady  Hunlocke,  who  had  already 
crossed  the  mountain  twice,  and  Mrs.  Cleveland, 
who  was  in  no  state  to  cross  it  all,  were  to  pro- 
ceed there  to  meet  us  by  the  valley,  a  drive  of 
a  few  hours  only. 

We  were  mounted  upon  two  great  rough 
gaunt  cart-horses, — for  no  mules  are  to  be  had 
in  the  Bernese  Oberland,  and  what  is  far  worse, 
no  side  saddles.  A  Germ^m  pillion,  with  a 
handle  to  hold  by,  to  which  you  must,  if  possible, 
contrive  to  stick  fast — as  the  awkward  animal, 
accustomed  only  to  harness,  scrambles  up  and 
down  the  broken  precipitous  paths — forms  a 
most  uncomfortable,  and  indeed  unsafe  substi- 
tute, for  our  pleasant  and^  secure  English  side- 
saddles. 

The  first  sight  we  saw,  on  leaving  Lauter- 
brunn,  was  two  women  mowing  in  a  meadow ; 
and  a  little  further  on,  we  beheld  a  woman 
actually  drawing  a  little  cart  herself.  It  is  a 
very  common  sight  to  see  cows  employed  in  this 
way;  for  in  this  land  of  industry,  even  the  milch 
VOL.   I.  2a 


354        MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS. 

COWS  are  not  exempted  from  labour,  and  they 
say  that  a  httle  easy  work  does  not  injure  them 
as  milkers. 

It  was  sweet,  as  we  climbed  the  steep  moun- 
tain's grassy  side,  to  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 
of  the  cattle,  that  browsed  at  large  over  the  Alp, 
mingled  with  the  pipe  of  the  idle  herdsman ; 
and  at  intervals,  the  wild  echoes  of  the  shepherd's 
horn,  sounding  from  afar  over  the  mountains. 

An  ascent  of  some  hours  brought  us  to  the 
grassy  heights  of  ManUchta,  where  we  dis- 
mounted, and  sat  down  on  the  green  turf,  with 
the  goats  and  cows,  and  our  horses  browsing 
around  us — enjoying  the  most  sublime  scene 
that  imagination  can  conceive.  At  our  feet,  we 
looked  down  into  the  long  deep  narrow  rapine 
of  Trumletenthal,  far  sunk  beneath  us ;  its 
depth  filled  with  immense  fragments  of  rock, 
and  mountains  of  fallen  ice,  which  alone  divided 
us  from  the  sublime  Jungfrau,  whose  perpen- 
dicular precipices  of  bare  rock,  rising  from  the 
depth  of  the  ravine,  like  a  wall,  to  an  enormous 
height,  supported  the  tremendous  mountains  of 
snow,  and  towering  glaciers,  which  were  piled 
above  it,  high  up  into  the  very  vault  of  heaven. 


MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS.        S55 

Though  the  mountain  on  which  we  sat,  was 
between  six  and  seven  thousand  feet  in  height,-— 
(double  the  height  of  Snowdoun) — ^it  seemed 
but  the  footstool  to  the  Jungfraii,  whose  tow- 
ering height,  with  the  sublime  forms  of  the 
Gros  Eiger,  the  Monk  Eiger,  the  Breithom, 
and  all  the  highest  pyramids  of  the  great  Alps, 
appeared  close  opposite,  revealed  from  their  base 
to  their  summit,  and  divided  from  us  only  by 
the  deep  narrow  ravine,  on  the  brink  of  which 
we  sat. 

Snowy  mountains  and  ranges  of  Alps,  are 
generally  seen  at  a  distance,  and  consequently 
lose  much  of  their  grandeur ;  resembling,  in 
their  effect  upon  the  mind,  the  faint  and  unreal 
effect  of  a  painting,  or  of  a  line  of  clouds  in  the 
horizon  ;  but  here,  from  their  base  to  their 
summit,  they  were  close  to  our  eyes.  Wc 
almost  fancied  we  could  stretch  out  our  hand 
and  touch  them.  We  were  impressed  with  the 
vivid  sense  of  their  reality  and  their  mightiness. 
We  had  not  sat  ten  minutes,  in  mute  admiration 
of  the  prospect,  when  an  enormous  field  of  frozen 
snow,  loosened  by  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun, 
2a  2 


356        MOUNTAINS   AND  MISHAPS. 

slid  down  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  imme- 
diately opposite,  and  tumbled  over  its  sides, 
like  a  long  cataract  of  silver,  into  the  abyss 
beneath,  with  the  reverberating  roar  of  thunder. 
At  the  interval  of  every  few  minutes,  these 
tremendous  avalanches,  each  sufficient  to  have 
overwhelmed  whole  cities,  and  thousands  of 
human  beings,  continued  to  fall ; — sometimes 
three  or  four  masses  of  ice,  one  above  another, 
detached  themselves  simultaneously,  from  the 
mountain's  shelving  sides,  and  overtaking  and 
rolling  over  each  other,  like  the  waves  of 
the  ocean,  thundered  down  into  the  ravine 
in  long  succession,  with  a  sound,  the  awful 
sublimity  of  which  no  words  can  describe. 
We  sat  nearly  two  hours  upon  this  spot,  gazing 
upon  this  sublime  spectacle,  which  had  a  stronger, 
but  similar  kind  of  fascination,  as  that  spell 
which  chains  your  eyes  to  contemplate  the 
roaring  billows  of  the  sea,  as  they  roll  in  suc- 
cession, and  break  on  the  resounding  shore. 
You  may  conceive  how  powerful  the  spell  must 
have  been,  when  even  Colonel  Cleveland  sat  quiet 
so  long.  With  difficulty,  at  last,  we  tore 
ourselves  away. 


MOUNTAINS  AND   MISHAPS.        857 

We  stopped  at  a  chalet  lower  down  on  the 
mountain's  side,  much  too  dirty  to  enter,  but 
seated  at  the  door  of  which  we  made  an  excellent 
repast  upon  some  delicious  rich  milk  the  shep- 
herds gave  us,  and  some  bread  we  had  with  us. 
They  brought  us  cream  so  thick,  that  it  was 
solid  rather  than  fluid.  As  we  descended,  we 
passed  some  noble  trees  of  the  Pinus  Cembra,  a 
peculiarly  beautiful  species  of  pine,  and  rather 
rare  even  on  the  Alps.  Its  growth  is  extremely 
slow.  A  long  rugged  descent  of  about  three 
hours,  beneath  the  towering  summits  of  the 
Monk  Eiger  and  the  Breithorn  (or  Silver  Horn 
Eiger) — and  the  still  loftier  though  more  distant 
obelise  of  the  Finster  Aarhorn  on  our  right, 
brought  us  down  to  Grindelwald.  The  view 
into  the  vale  of  Grindelwald,  encompassed  with 
the  snowy  summits  of  the  Shreckhorn,  the 
Vieschorn,  the  Wetterhorn,  and  the  Eiger ;  the 
black  mountain  of  Faulhorn,  the  rocky  heights 
of  Mettenberg,  with  the  tremendous  glacier 
lying  at  its  base,  and  the  picturesque  wooden 
cottages  scattered  about  in  the  deep  secluded 
verdant  bsain,  which  the  valjey  formes,  is  pecu- 
liarly beautiful.    These  mountains,  with  scarcely 


358        MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS. 

an  exception,  are  upwards  of  thirteen  thousand 
feet  in  height — more  than  three  times  the  height 
of  Ben  Nevis,  the  highest  mountain  in  Britain, 
and  rather  more  than  four  times  the  height  of 
Ben  Lomond.  They  are  seen  around  the  Httle 
vale  of  Grindelwald,  close  to  the  eye,  from  top 
to  bottom.  Conceive  the  sublimity  of  thus 
being  closely  surrounded  on  all  sides,  with  these 
mighty  giants  of  earth  ! 

On  reaching  the  inn,  finding  that  Lady 
Hunlocke  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  had  not  yet  arri- 
ved. Colonel  Cleveland  and  I  took  a  walk  to 
visit  the  lower  glacier  of  Grindelwald,  opposite 
the  inn  windows,  attended  by  a  guide.  We 
found  the  way  longer  and  more  fatiguing  than 
we  had  expected,  but  were  amply  repaid  both 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  towering  icy  pyramids 
of  the  glacier  itself,  and  by  the  varied  and 
sublime  views  of  the  surrounding  mountains, 
which  we  enjoyed  in  scrambling  up  the  rugged 
and  slippery  path  by  the  glacier's  side.  We 
were  amusing  ourselves  as  we  pursued  our  way, 
with  gathering  wild  strawberries  with  one  hand, 
and  touching  the  ice  with  the  other,  when  we 
heard,  far  above  us,  a  vehement  discord  of  voices 


MOUNTAINS   AND  MISHAPS.        359 

in  French  and  German,  the  one  uttering  the 
plaintive  sound  of  lamentation — the  other  of 
hoarse  angry  menace.  Concluding  that  some 
unlucky  traveller  w^as  about  to  be  murdered 
alone  upon  the  ice,  the  innumerable  and  un- 
fathomable fissures  of  which  would  certainly 
afford  a  fine  opportunity  of  concealing  the  body. 
Colonel  Cleveland  hastened  forwards  as  fast  as 
possible,  accompanied  by  our  guide,  and  in  a 
short  time  encountered  a  tall  athletic  Swiss 
mountaineer  hurrying  down,  with  a  gilt  morocco 
pocket-book  in  his  hand.  Considerably  higher 
up  the  glacier,  we  descried  the  slender  figure  of 
a  young  man,  sitting  upon  the  ice,  wringing  his 
hands,  and  uttering  cries  of  distress.  Concluding 
that  he  had  been  robbed  and  abandoned  by  his 
guide  who  was  hurrying  off  so  fast  with  the 
booty.  Colonel  Cleveland  no  sooner  came  within 
arms  length  of  the  '  ruffian'  as  he  called  him, 
than  he  seized  him  by  the  collar,  exclaiming  in 
English — '  You  rascal !  do  you  think  to  escape 
after  robbing  that  poor  fellow,  and  leavmg  him 
to  perish  !"*  The  unlucky  countryman,  thus 
taken  by  surprise  and  nearly  throttled,  at  length 
extricated    himself    from    Colonel    Cleveland's 


360        MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS. 

vigorous  grasp,  and  not  understanding  a  word  he 
said,  would  instantly  have  retaliated  upon  him, 
had  not  our  guide  interfered  between  them. 
Upon  questioning  the  supposed  delinquent,  he 
declared,  that  so  far  from  abandoning  the  little 
Frenchman  who  was  crying  above,  he  could 
not  get  him  to  move  a  step  either  up  or  down — 
that  he  was  so  overcome  with  terror  at  the  sight 
of  the  yawning  chasms  and  fissures  in  the  ice  on 
every  side  of  him,  that  he  durst  neither  go 
backwards  nor  forwards — and  that  he  had  sat 
down  where  we  saw  him,  declaring  that  there 
he  would  stay  and  die.  The  guide  said  he 
had  remonstrated,  nay  even  threatened  him,  in 
vain — and  had  at  last  left  him,  in  order  to  get 
help  to  carry  him  away  by  force.  As  to  the 
pocket-book,  he  was  obliged  to  take  it  to  pacify 
the  little  Frenchman,  who  had  written  his  last 
will  and  testament  upon  a  blank  leaf  of  it  with 
his  penciL*  At  this  explanation,  and  at  the 
sight  of  the  Frenchman,  who  still  sat  wringing 
his  hands  with  the  most  helpless  gesticulations 


*  Fact.    The  whole  of  this  occurrence  actually  happened, 
as  related. 


MOUNTAINS  AND  MISHAPS.         361 

of  despair — I  thought  Colonel  Cleveland  would 
have  expired  with  laughter ; — it  was  some  time 
before  he  could  move  at  all ;  at  last,  perfectly 
exhausted  with  his  fits  of  mirth,  he  scrambled 
up  till  he  got  within  hail  of  the  forlorn  French- 
man. But  in  vain  he  exhorted  him  in  his  best 
French — '  To  pluck  up  a  a  little  spirit — to 
come  down  like  a  man.' 

'No,  no,'  the  little  Frenchman  cried — 'he 
could  not  move — he  durst  not  move  one  step. 
There  he  would  stay — there  he  would  sit  and 
die  of  cold  and  hunger.' 

'  You  great  oaf !'  exclaimed  Colonel  Cleve- 
land, still  scarcely  able  to  speak  for  laughing 
— '  Had  not  you  better  break  your  neck  at 
once,  like  a  man — than  sit  there  crying  like  a  fool 
— to  starve  by  inches.  But  there  is  no  danger 
whatever.  Are  not  you  ashamed  of  sitting  there 
like  a  coward,  when  you  see  this  young  lady 
walking  on  without  giving  any  body  any  trouble.'' 
Come,  come,  take  heart  man  !  Take  hold  of 
one  of  the  guides  with  each  hand,  and  step  on 
between  them.' 

After  much  solicitation,  the  guides  did 
actually  get  him  upon  his  legs — ^but  struck  with 


362       MOUNTAINS    AND    MISHAPS. 

new  terror  at  the  deeper  view  this  gave  him 
down  into  the  cavities  of  the  ice,  he  plumped 
down  again,  bewaihng  himself  more  bitterly 
than  ever. 

Colonel  Cleveland  now  called  to  the  guides  to 
tuck  him  up  and  carry  him  off  by  force,  which 
they  accordingly  did  ;  the  one  taking  his  heels, 
and  the  other  his  head.  '  And  now  if  youVe  not 
quiet  friend,  you  will  break  your  neck  in  good 
earnest,'  exclaimed  Colonel  Cleveland.  But  the 
Frenchman,  stiffened  and  ghastly  with  horror, 
never  moved  limb  nor  feature,  and  was  carried 
safe  down  the  glacier,  like  a  bale  of  goods. 
When  he  was  set  upon  his  legs,  and  the  guide 
had  returned  to  us,  we  proceeded  a  little  higher 
up  to  the  point  of  our  destination,  the  same  to 
which  the  unlucky  Parisian  had  been  bound ; 
and  we  were  recompensed  for  our  labours  by  the 
grand  view  it  commands  over  the  valley  of  ice 
of  the  glacier,  and  the  towering  heights  of  the 
Shreckhorn.  Great  must  have  been  his  mortifi- 
fication  to  have  seen  me,  from  the  bottom  of  the 
glacier,  prosperously  proceed  over  the  very  ice 
on  which  he  had  sat  himself  down  in  despair. 
He  waited  our  descent,   and  when  we  rejoined 


MOUNTAINS    AND    MISHAPS.       363 

him,  the  contortions  which  despair  had  produced 
upon  his  physiognomy  having  subsided,  I  recog- 
nised our  old  acquaintance  of  the  Coche  d'  Eau, 
on  the  Rhone,  M.  Berger,  the  same  whom  we 
had  surnamed  the  disconsolate  shepherd,  who 
was  travelling  expressly  to  cure  himself  of  his 
love — and  who,  when  we  first  saw  the  distant 
Alps,  pronounced  them  to  be  '  bien  gentil."' 

'  Ah  Mademoiselle  !'  exclaimed  the  hapless 
youth,  with  a  piteous  shrug  when  he  saw  me — 'Is 
it  you !' — and  straitway,  with  a  most  rueful  coun- 
tenance, he  began  to  express,  after  the  French 
mode,  the  inexpressible  delight  and  happiness 
he  experienced  in  meeting  me  again — even  here ; 
but  woeful  was  his  account  of  the  '  horreurs'  it 
had  been  his  luckless  fate  to  go  through,  in  this 
horrible  country ;  and  bitter  was  his  abuse  of 
the  Alps.  I  ventured  to  offer  a  word  in  their 
vindication — «  Mais  mon  Dien  !  Mademoiselle,' 
he  exclaimed — 'Quel  vilain  pays!  Quelles 
montagnes  aifreuses  !  Quels  rochers  sauvages  ! 
Quels  glaciers  !  Quel  desert !  O  mon  Dieu  ! 
Quel  vilain  pays,  quel  vilain  pays !'  He  then 
proceeded  to  abuse  the  people  for  a  set  of 
savages; — and  then  their  language  barbare — why 


364        MOUNTAINS    AND    MISHAPS. 

they  did  not  even  know  French  ! — c'  est  incroy- 
able  r — Orpheus  among  the  brutes,  he  declared, 
was  not  half  so  lost  as  himself  amongst  these  Swiss 
savages.  Pathetically  did  he  complain  of  the 
dreadful  perils  he  had  encountered  upon  this 
glacier,  vowing  he  never  would  venture  upon 
another  ;  and  adding,  '  he  supposed  the  reason 
Mademoiselle  walked  so  well  over  the  glaciers 
was,  that  I  was  used  to  them  in  my  own  cold 
country  !"*  This  exceeded  all  I  could  have 
imagined  possible,  even  from  the  ignorance  of  a 
Badaud  de  Paris ! 

This  glacier  is  certainly  rather  a  perilous 
passage.  In  crossing  it,  a  man  of  Grindelwald 
once  fell  into  one  of  its  deep  fissures,  when  quite 
alonef  but  most  providentially  he  alighted  on  a 
bed  of  snow,  softened  by  the  stream  of  water 
which  flows  beneath  it ;  and,  by  following  its 
course,  he  made  his  way  under  the  vault  of  ice, 
and  issued  forth  with  the  source  of  the  river,  at 
the  lower  extremity  of  the  glacier.  His  arm 
only  was  broken.  An  escape  so  miraculous 
would  be  incredible,  was  it  not  within  the 
memory  of  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley. 
The  man  to  whom  the  accident  happened,  by 


MOUNTAINS    AND    MISHAPS.      '365 

name  Christian  Boren,  is  the  innkeeper  of  Grin- 
del  wald,  and  himself  related  to  us  the  history  of 
his  miraculous  escape. 

In  former  ages,  the  space  now  covered  with 
the  enormous  glaciers  which  lie  hid  between 
the  Shreckhorn,  the  Wetterhorn,  the  Viesch- 
horn,  the  Eiger,  and  the  Jungfrau,  was  occupied 
by  verdant  Alpine  vaUies,  through  which  a 
road  led  into  the  Haut  Valais..  A  rural  chapel 
which  stood  upon  this  pass,  is  buried  beneath 
the  ice — ^but  they  still  shew  you  the  ancient 
clock  which  belonged  to  it,  with  the  date  of 
1144  inscribed  upon  it.  The  guide  told  us,  as 
we  were  returning,  that  a  bear  has  been  seen 
very  lately  upon  these  far  extended  glaciers, 
which  has  excited  great  alarm  in  the  valley,  as 
it  is  the  first  which  has  appeared  for  many 
years.  Colonel  Cleveland,  to  whom  I  serve  as 
interpreter,  for  the  guides  here  speak  their 
native  German  Patois  only — on  hearing  this, 
most  vehemently  longed  to  have  a  hunt  after 
the  bear,  and  tried  to  persuade  the  guides  to 
assemble  some  of  the  peasants  to  morrow  morn- 
ing for  that  purpose.  I  cannot  say  I  seconded 
this  scheme  very  earnestly  in  my  interpretation 


366        MOUNTAINS    AND    MISHAPS. 

of  it,  for  I  knew  it  would  frighten  Mrs.  Cleve- 
land to  death ;  and  besides,  I  really  thought 
that  he  might  break  his  nec)i  upon  the  glaciers, 
in  the  ardour  of  the  chase  ;  not  to  mention  the 
chance  of  being  swallowed  up  by  the  bear,  for 
breakfast. 

Very  tired  and  very  hungry,  we  reached  the 
inn,  and  found  Mrs.  Cleveland  alone,  scmrwhat 
uneasy  at  our  absence,  and  waiting  dinner  «f  us. 
Lady  Hunlocke  had  returned  to  Interlachen,  to 
visit  her  old  and  most  valued  factotum  of  a  man- 
servant, who,  instead  of  following  her  as  she 
expected,  to  Lauterbrunn  this  morning,  had  sent 
a  message  to  say  that  he  was  taken  ill  of  an 
intermitting  fever,  and  she  could  not  feel  easy 
without  going  back  to  see  that  he  had  the  best 
advice  and  assistance,  and  also  to  leave  her  own 
maid  to  nurse  him.  She  fixed  to  meet  us  at 
Meyringen  to  morrow,  to  which  she  is  to 
proceed  from  Interlachen  direct,  by  way  of 
Brientz. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MORE  MOUNTAINS-MORE 
MISHAPS. 


-Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice, 


Ye  avalanches,  which  a  breath  draws  down. 

In  mountainous  overwhelming,  will  ye  crush  me  ? 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath. 
Crash  with  a  fearful  conflict — but  ye  pass. 

Manfred. 
Tendons  une  main  bienfaisante 
A  cet  infortun^  que  le  ciel  nous  presente ; 

II  suffit  qu'il  soit  homme,  et  qu'il  soit  malheureux. 

Voltaire. 

Fais  ce  que  tu  dois, — arrive  ce  qui  pourra ! 


LETTER  XVI. 

CAROLINE    ST.    CLAIR    TO    MRS.    BALCARRIS. 

Sept.  10,  d'indelwald — still  t 

More   than  one  day  has  elapsed  and  still  I 
am  here,— and  here  for  many  days  more  I  am 

likely  to  remain.    Little  did  I  think, but  I 

must  tell  my  tale  from  the  beginning. 


S68  MORE  MOUNTAINS, 

The  morning  following  our  arrival,  as  usual, 
rose  bright  and  beautiful,  though  so  cold  that 
we  found  a  good  deal  of  snow  had  fallen  during 
the   night,    upon   the  surrounding   mountains. 

Mounted  on  horseback,  we  all  set  off  after 
breakfast  to  cross  the  great  Scheideck  to  Meyrin- 
gen.  We  diverged  from  the  path  to  visit  the 
great  glacier  of  Grindelwald,  and  as  Mrs. 
Cleveland,  who  had  never  seen  an  avalanche, 
expressed  a  strong  desire  to  behold  one,  the 
guides  led  us  to  a  neighbouring  height,  from 
whence  she  could  look  down  upon  their  fall. 
We  stood  upon  a  flat  ledge  or  terrace,  from 
which  sloped  down  a  shelving  declivity,  as  steep 
as  the  roof  of  a  house,  and  about  the  same 
breadth  ;  beneath  which  was  a  precipice,  whose 
stony  sides,  very  nearly  perpendicular,  were 
jagged  with  rough  rocks,  partially  covered  with 
fresh  fallen  snow.  But  it  was  close  to  us  on  one 
side,  and  beyond  this  sort  of  shelf  or  terrace,  on 
which  we  were  standing,  where  the  steep  decli- 
vity of  the  mountain'*s  top  above  terminated  in  a 
tremendous  precipice,  that  we  were  directed  to 
watch  for  the  expected  avalanche.  While 
waiting  for  it,   we  heard  the  report  of  a  gim. 


MORE    MISHAPS.  369 

which  probably  loosened  a  body  of  snow,  for 
almost  immediately  it  rolled  down  the  declivity 
above,  and  fell  over  the  brink  of  the  precipice 
into  the  ravine  beneath,  with  the  noise  of 
thunder.  A  second  discharge  of  a  gun  very 
near  to  us,  almost  immediately  followed,  and  a 
bird  fell  dead  at  our  feet,  on  the  shelving  rock 
before  us. 

A  gentleman  with  two  guides  now  appeared 
in  view,  from  the  rocks  behind  us,  who  imme- 
diately made  his  apologies  to   Mrs.   Cleveland 
for  having,  in  ignorance  of  our  vicinity,  startled 
her  with  inadvertently  firing  so  near  her.     At 
the  first  glance  I  saw,  to  my  inexpressible  confu- 
sion, that  the  stranger  was  no  other  than  the 
identical  knight  of  the  rings.     I  turned  my  back 
to  him,  and  threw  down  my  veil,  turning  it  up 
again,  so  as  to  fall  double  over  my  face,  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  not  recognise  me  ;  but  while 
Colonel  Cleveland  talked  eagerly  to  him  about 
game,  shooting,   chamois,   &c.  he  came  forward 
and  went  down  upon  the  steep  and  dangerous 
declivity   before    us,    to    examine   his    bird — 
although  one  of  his  guides  was  then  in  the  act 
VOL.  I.  2  b 


370  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

of  picking  it  up.  He  now  turned  round,  and 
exactly  faced  me.  I  could  not  support  his 
gaze,  and  moving  away  a  few  steps,  I  went  down 
upon  the  steep  shelf  of  the  rock,  and  stooped,  in 
order  the  better  to  conceal  my  face,  to  pick  a 
beautiful  flower,  of  a  variety  of  the  saxifrage, 
which  was  growing  a  little  way  over  the  ledge; — 
while  stooping,  I  heard  Mrs.  Cleveland  call  out 
with  a  scream — >'  Good  God,  Caroline !'  and  at  the 
same  instant^  Colonel  Cleveland  shouted,  '  The 
bear!  the  bear  !'  Startled  at  this  double  alarm, 
I  sought,  with  a  hasty  effort,  to  recover  my 
footing  on  the  ledge  above,  but  the  snow,  which 
was  quite  soft  and  fresh  fallen,  gave  way  under 
my  feet — I  fell — and  must  inevitably  have 
slipped  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  had  not 
the  stranger,  who  was  standing  on  the  same 
shelving  rock,  a  few  paces  from  me,  sprung 
forward  and  intercepted  my  fall ; — his  guide,  at 
that  moment,  caught  hold  of  me,  and  I  was 
safe ; — ^but,  dreadful  to  relate,  by  the  effort  he 
made  to  stop  my  fall,  he  lost  his  own  footing, 
staggered  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  before  our 
eyes,  was  precipitated  over  the  edge  of  the  preci- 


MORE    MISHAPS.  371 

pice,  into  the  ravine  beneath  !  Never,  while  I 
hve,  shall  I  forget  the  feeUngs  of  that  moment. 
I  cannot  yet  recall  it  to  my  mind  without  sensa- 
tions of  shuddering  agony,  which  no  words  can 
describe.  Horror-struck  by  the  fatal  conse- 
quences of  my  rash  folly,  I  stood  transfixed  to 
the  spot  in  speechless  despair.  Nothing  but  the 
wild  hope,  for  such  it  seemed  to  every  one  else, 
that  he  might  possibly  yet  be  alive  and  be 
saved,  preserved  me  from  distraction. 

From  the  precipice  not  being  perfectly  perpen- 
dicular, he  had  rolled  a  long  way  down  its  side 
among  the  rough  stones  and  rocks,  with  frightful 
rapidity,  but  his  actual  fall  had  not  been  so 
tremendous.  Now  however,  he  lay  on  the  broken 
snows  and  icy  bed  of  the  last  avalanche,  still  and 
motionless  as  death.  The  next  avalanche  must 
inevitably  overwhelm  him.  The  guides  said  it 
would  take  nearly  an  hour  to  go  by  the  long- 
circuit  round  to  the  bottom  of  the  precipice,  and 
I  implored  them  to  procure  ropes  without  a 
moment's  delay,  and  to  let  themselves  down  from 
the  place  where  we  were  standing,  to  the  bottom. 
'  It  was  to  no  use,"*  they  said,  '  he  must  be  dead."* 
2b  2 


37S  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

But  seeing  a  chalet  on  the  mountain,  at  a  httle 
distance,  I  sent  them,  there  for  cords  and  help, 
promising  them  a  high  reward  for  success  and 
expedition.  They  flew  like  the  wind,  while  we 
stood  in  fearful  agony,  straining  our  eyes  over 
the  precipice.  Colonel  Cleveland  once  broke 
the  silence  by  calling  out  aloud  to  the  unfor- 
tunate and  insensible  victim  of  my  imprudence, 
but  no  answer  was  returned-— and  I  prevented 
him  from  repeating  it,  knowing  that  any  noise, 
even  that  of  a  human  voice,  in  speaking,  will 
cause  avalanches — one  of  which  every  minute 
we  trembled  to  think  might  bury  him  beneath 
its  tremendous  heaps,  and  destroy  the  faint 
glimmering  hope  I  yet  cherished  that  life  might 
not  be  wholly  extinct.  The  men  returned  with 
ropes  and  two  shepherds,  and  one  of  the  guides 
was  immediately  lowered  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  precipice.  He  examined  the  poor  lifeless 
being,  and  then  said  to  us  in  German — '  He 
still  breathes  !' 

The  transport  with  which  these  words  filled 
my  heart,  it  is  wholly  impossible  to  express 
Another  and  another  man  was  lowered  down — 


MORE    MISHAPS.  373 

and  forming  a  rude  sort  of  litter  of  the  ropes, 
with  great  dexterity  and  expedition  they  carried 
him  av/ay. 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  afterwards  told 
me,  that  he  had  not  been  removed  ten  minutes, 
when  a  tremendous  avalanche  fell  upon  the  very 
spot  on  which  he  had  been  lying.  They 
witnessed  its  fall  as  they  were  descending  the 
black  mountain*  of  Bergelbach,  to  Grindelwald. 
Had  the  accident  happened  at  a  later  hour  in 
the  day,  when  the  avalanches  are  more  frequent, 
he  must  have  been  overwhelmed  beneath  them.-f- 

I  learnt  afterwards,  that  Mrs.  Cleveland's 
scream  had  been  caused  by  seeing  me  in  a 
situation  which  she  considered  so  perilous — 
near  the  brink  of  the  precipice — and  Colonel 
Cleveland's  simultaneous  shout  of   '  the  bear ! 


*  Black — ^because  composed  of  a  fine  decomposing  sort  of 
black  gray  slate 

■\-  Avalanches  among  the  Ali3s,  during  summer,  are  the 
most  frequent  from  two  to  four,  when  the  effect  of  the  sun's 
rays  is  the  most  powerful.  None  take  place  during  the 
night. 


374  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

the  bear  !  Look  !  the  bear  !** — arose  from  his 
suddenly  observing  the  footmarks  of  a  bear— 
or  what  he  took  for  them — in  the  snow.  And 
these  two  screams,  which  coupled  me  and  the 
bear  together  in  the  same  breath,  and  made  me 
suppose  the  animal  was  at  my  elbow — as  I  was 
stooping,  and  could  not  see  around  me — and 
was  besides  blinded  with  my  veil,  which  like  a 
fool  I  had  doubled  so  carefully  over  my  face — 
these  two  screams,  certainly,  were  the  cause  of 
the  hasty  spring  I  made,  by  which  I  lost  my 
footing,  and  should  inevitably  have  fallen  over 
the  precipice,  but  for  the  rescue  of  this  unfor- 
tunate young  man — whose  life,  I  shudder  to 
think,  may  yet  fall  a  sacrifice  to  saving  mine. 
But  this  is  no  excuse  for  my  rashness  in  venturing 
into  such  a  situation,  which  I  do  not  mean  to 
exculpate. 

You  may  believe  at  the  time,  however,  I 
waited  for  no  explanation  of  the  cause  of  these 
ill-fated  screams.  Without  stopping  a  single 
moment  either  to  speak  or  to  hear,  the  instant 
the  unfortunate  young  man  was  removed,  I 
hurried  to  the  place  where  we  had  left  our  horses. 


MORE    MISHAPS.  375 

and  with  them  Plait,  who  had  staid  behind, 
sagely  observed — '  that  she  had  no  mind  to  see 
any  more  of  these  Glass-ears.''  I  mounted  that 
fair  Abigail's  horse,  leaving  mine  for  her,  which 
was  broken-winded — and  made  the  imweildy 
cart  animal  carry  me  at  such  a  rate  back  into 
the  valley,  as  I  dare  say  it  never  went  before, 
nor  ever  will  again.  I  rode  up  to  the  Pastor's 
house,  where  we  had  learnt  from  the  guides  this 
poor  young  man  had  been  staying,  and  informed 
the  Pastor's  wife  of  his  situation,  who  imme- 
diately made  every  preparation  for  his  accom- 
modation, while  I  sent  for  fresh  guides  from 
the  inn,  with  an  excellent  litter  which  they  have 
here  for  such  melancholy  accidents — to  meet 
and  relieve  the  other  bearers,  and  bring  him 
home.  I  also  dispatched  a  messenger  for  a  man 
of  the  village  who  I  heard  could  bleed,  and 
sent  off  another  express  on  horseback  for  the 
nearest  surgeon. 

Pale,  bloody,  motionless,  and  insensible — 
this  unfortunate  young  man  was  at  last  brought 
into  the  F  astor's  humble  dwelling,  and  laid  upon 
the  bed.  Every  one  thought  he  was  dead — but 
a  vein    was  breathed,  and  after  some  difficulty 


376  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

the  blood  was  made  to  flow  freely  from  the  arm; 
he  then  heaved  a  long  sigh,  and  opened  his 
eyes,  but  immediately  closed  them.  After  the 
bleeding  was  over,  he  seemed  to  breathe  more 
freely,  but  still  betrayed  no  sign  of  consciousness. 
I  kept  the  room  perfectly  quiet — and  when  at 
last  the  surgeon  arrived,  and  examined  the  head, 
he  immediately  performed  the  operation  of  tre- 
panning, and  declared  that  the  principal  danger 
arose  from  a  severe  contusion  of  the  brain.  In 
answer  to  my  eager  inquiries,  he  said  the  chances 
were  certainly  against  him,  but  that  he  might 
possibly  yet  recover,  All  however  depended 
upon  care  and  quiet.  His  left  arm  was  broken 
by  a  compound  fracture.  Had  he  not  fallen 
upon  the  snow,  and  with  the  weight  of  his  body 
chiefly  on  this  arm,  he  must,  in  all  probability, 
have  been  dashed  to  pieces.* 

After  hearing  the  surgeon'*s  report,   which 
gave  sqme  faint  hopes  of  his  ultimate  recovery, 


*  A  similar  fall  and  escape  of  a  young  Englishman 
actually  took  place  among  the  Alps,  during  the  Author's 
residence  in  Switzerland. 


MORE    MISHAPS.  377 

Colonel  and  Mrs.  Cleveland  prepared  to  set  off 
for  Meyringen.  But  great  was  their  astonish- 
ment, when  I  told  them,  I  had  resolved  to 
remain  here,  in  capacity  of  nurse,  until  the  fate 
of  this  unfortunate  man  was  decided.  I  felt 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  do  so,  since  the  acci- 
dent was  caused  entirely  by  my  own  rashness. 
It  was  in  serving  me  that  he  fell,  and  his  life, 
which  was  in  most  imminent  peril,  could  only  be 
saved  by  unremitting  care  and  watchfulness. 
How  then  could  I  reconcile  it  to  my  conscience 
to  abandon  him  in  this  critical  state,  with  no  one 
to  watch  over  him — without  even  a  servant  of 
his  own,  and  without  any  proper  nurse  ?  For  the 
Pastor  himself  is  at  Berne,  the  Pastor*'s  wife  is 
entirely  engrossed  with  nursing  her  young  baby, 
and  attending  her  other  children  and  her  house, 
in  which  only  one  servant  is  kept  for  all  work. 
The  Pastor's  old  mother  who  lives  with  them,  is 
as  deaf  as  a  post,  as  stiff  as  a  tree  with  the 
rheumatism,  and  nearly  helpless  with  the  mani- 
fold infirmities  of  age ;  so  that  he  must  inevit- 
ably be  grossly  neglected,  and  should  he  recover 
his  recollection  so  as  to  speak,   he  would  find 


578  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

himself  with  foreigners,  who  cannot  understand 
one  word  he  says — for  he  speaks  no  German,  (as 
the  Pastor''s  wife  told  me),  and  she,  and  her  old 
mother,  and  her  servant,  and  all  the  people  of  the 
valley,  speak  nothing  else.  The  surgeon  had 
said  that  indefatigable  care  and  attention  might 
save  him — and  what  would  be  my  remorse  if  he 
died  for  the  want  of  these  ? 

I  urged  all  these  considerations,  but  still  Mrs. 
Cleveland  remonstrated  against  this  measure, 
though  in  vain.  I  was,  as  you  well  know  I 
always  am,  when  I  have  once  taken  a  resolution, 
perfectly  inflexible.  She  represented,  in  the 
strongest  colours,  the  flagrant  impropriety  of 
my  remaining  here  alone  with  a  handsome, 
fashionable  young  Englishman,  and  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  attending  upon  him  night  and  day — 
while  he  was  confined  to  bed.  What  would  be 
said  ? — what  would  be  thought  of  it  ? 

'  1  replied  that  I  was  well  aware  of  all  that 
she  could  urge  on  this  head,  but  I  would  not 
suffer  appearances  to  weigh  against  the  life  of 
a  fellow-creature — a  life  which  I  myself  had 
endangered,  and  which,  through  the  blessing  of 


MORE    MISHAPS.  379 

God,  I  might  yet  be  enabled  to  preserve.  To 
sacrifice  every  other  consideration  to  this,  was 
my  paramount  duty.  If  I  met  with  censure,  I 
must  bear  it,  as  the  just  penalty  of  the  impru- 
dence which  had  placed  me  in  such  a  situation. 
But  I  could  scarcely  think  that  those  who  knew 
all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  could  blame  me 
for  acting  as  I  did.  Much  more  really  blame- 
able  should  I  be,  if,  after  being  the  cause  of  his 
danger,  I  abandoned  him  to  perish  without 
proper  attendance.  My  peace  of  mind  would 
be  embittered  for  ever,  if  he  should  die.  At 
least  I  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling, 
that  I  had  now  left  nothing  undone  to  remedy 
the  evil  I  had  done,  and  to  save  his  life.' 

'  But,  Caroline,"'  said  Mrs.  Cleveland,  with 
some  hesitation,  '  there  is  another  thing  I  am 
afraid  of.  Though  he  looks  young — yet  he  may 
perhaps  be  married,  or  engaged,  or' — 

'  And  if  he  should ;'  I  exclaimed,  in  asto- 
nishment, '-  surely  that  would  only  make  his 
life  more  valuable  !' 

'  Yes,  yes  !  I  know  that — but  you  don  t 
understand  me.  I  mean,  if  you  should  happen 
to — to' — 


380  MORE    MOUNTAINS, 

'  To  fall  in  love  with  him,  you  mean  !'  I  said, 
as  much  disposed  to  laugh  at  her  serious  look  of 
uneasiness  about  this  danger,  as  any  thing  could 
make  me  at  the  present  moment.  '  Make  your- 
self perfectly  easy  on  that  head,  dear  Adeline. 
There  is  not  the  smallest  danger  of  such  a 
misfortune  happening  to  me ; — nay,  I  will 
promise  not  to  fall  in  love  with  him;  I  V/ill 
engage  to  refrain  from  it.  Believe  me,  if  I  ever 
do  fall  in  love  with  any  man,  it  will  not  be  for 
having  broken  his  bones,  nor  any  other  bodily 
mischance — but  for  very  different  qualifications.'' 

'  Well,  but  Caroline,  you  know  he  has  saved 
your  life.' 

'  I  do  know  it,  and  I  feel  most  grateful  for 
that  undeserved  preservation.  But  I  feel  grate- 
ful to  heaven — not  to  him.  Perhaps  1  ought  to 
feel  gratitude  to  him  also,  but  it  would  only  be 
hypocrisy  to  pretend  that  I  do.  It  was  a  natural 
unreflecting  impulse  that  prompted  him  to  start 
forward  to  stop  my  fall.  He  could  not  know 
that  he  should  suffer  by  it.  I  can  only  consider 
him  as  the  instrument  of  Providence,  and  I 
acknowledge  that  I  can  feel  nothing,  at  this 
moment  but  gratitude  to  heaven — deep  humility 


MORE    MISHAPS.  881 

for  my  own  culpable  folly — and  extreme  soli- 
citude for  his  preservation  ;  and  this  last  feeling, 
like  Aaron's  rod,  almost  swallows  up  the  rest.** 

'  Ah  !  Caroline,  that  deep  solicitude  ! — 
Besides  only  think  when  he  comes  to  his  senses' — 

'  God  grant  he  may  V  I  interrupted. 

'  Well  !  but  only  think,  in  that  case,  how- 
embarrassed  you  will  feel  when  he  sees  you,  and 
knows  that  it  is  the  lady  whose  life  he  has  saved, 
that  is  hanging  over  his  bed.' 

'  But  there  is  no  occasion  he  should  know  that.' 

'  O  !  but  he  will  know  it ;  and  he  will  cer- 
tainly fall  in  love  with  yoti,  at  all  events.' 

'  There  is  no  chance  of  that.  When  a  man 
is  stretched  on  the  bed  of  pain,  and  weakness, 
and  danger, — love  is  the  last  thing  he  is  likely  to 
think  of. — Besides,  I  don't  intend  he  should 
know  that  1  am  '  the  lady  whose  life  he  has 
saved,' — nor  an  English  lady — nor  a  lady  at  all ; 
— I  mean  to  pass  myself  off  for  a  Swiss  girl.' 

'  For  a  Swiss  girl !  but  how  then  can  you 
speak  English  ?"" 

'  O  !  hundreds  of  Swiss  speak  English, — 
though  nobody  at  Grindelwald  does,  unluckily.' 


882  MOKE    MOUNTAINS, 

'  But  he  will  hear  who  you  are  from  tlie 
Pastor's  wife  or  mother."* 

'  He  will  be  very  ingenious  then,  because  he 
can't  understand  a  word  they  say  Nor  would 
they  tell  him,  I  am  sure.  They  are  very 
sensible  considerate  persons,  and  will  at  once 
see  the  propriety  of  his  not  knowing  who  I  am. 
And  as  to  being  left  alone  with  him — that  shall 
never  happen.  The  Pastor's  wife  has  already 
promised  to  get  immediately  a  steady  woman, 
to  act  in  the  sick  room,  under  my  orders — and 
the  Pastor's  old  mother,  who  sits  knitting 
stockings  all  day  long,  has  promised  to  sit  and 
knit  them  there  the  moment  he  recovers  his 
consciousness  in  any  degree ;  till  which  time  I 
shall  not  allow  a  creature,  excepting  those 
absolutely  necessary,  to  enter  the  room.' 

'  Still  Caroline,  you  don't  know  how  dis- 
agreeable it  will  be.  You  will  have  every  thing 
about  him,  for  instance,  to  explain  to  the  doctor. 
A  hundred  unpleasant  questions  to  answer.' 

'  My  dear  Adeline,  it  won't  discompose  me 
in  the  least.  All  my  life  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed  to  consider  the  human  race  as  divided 


MORE    MISHAPS.  388 

into  three  classes — men,  women,'  and  doctors. 
I  don't  look  upon  a  doctor  as  a  man.' 

Mrs.  Cleveland  laughed  and  said — '  Well, 
I  have  heard  a  doctor  called  an  old  woman, 
to  be  sure."* 

'But  I  don't  consider  a  doctor  an  old  woman 
at  all — quite  different.  A  doctor  is  a  thing 
quite  distinct  by  itself.' 

Finding  I  was  quite  determined  upon  staying, 
Mrs.  Cleveland  very  kindly  offered  to  leave 
Plait  with  me,  but,  besides  that  I  would  not, 
upon  any  account,  have  deprived  her  of  Plait's 
services.  Plait  would  only  have  been  an  incum- 
brance to  me — neither  speaking  nor  understand- 
ing a  word  of  any  language  but  her  own.' 

At  last  they  set  off  to  prosecute  that  delightful 
Swiss  tour  which  now  I  shall  never  enjoy.  But 
of  this  deprivation  I  must  not  complain.  Small 
will  be  that,  or  any  sacrifice — if  I  am  saved  from 
the  horrible  reflection  of  having  been  the  cause 
of  the  death  of  a  fellow  creature.  Colonel 
Cleveland  shook  me  most  cordially  by  the  hand 
at  parting,  saying,  in  his  warm-hearted  manner, 
•  Good  bye.  Miss  St.  Clair  !     Good  bye  !     You 


384  MORE    MOUNTAINS. 

are  a  noble  hearted  girl,  and  I  honour  you  for 
it !     God  bless  you  I' 

The  poor  invalid  seems,  on  the  whole,  better; 
the  fever  is  mitigated,  but  his  recollection  has 
not  yet  returned — nor  can  he  see  at  all,  from 
the  violent  swelling  produced  by  the  contusions 
on  the  temples  and  face.  He  is  now  sleeping 
more  tranquilly  than  he  has  ever  yet  done,  while 
I  am  writing  this  in  the  darkened  chamber,  in 
which  no  eye  but  mine  that  is  accustomed  to  its 
gloom,  could  see  to  trace  a  letter.  But  I  must 
now  conclude. 

Your''s  ever. 


END     OF     VOL.    I. 


LEEDS  :    PRINTED  BY  ROBINSON  AND  HERNAMAN. 


ERRATA  TO  VOL.  I. 

The  Reader  is  particularly  requested  to  correct  the    fol- 
lowing errors,  which  corrupt  either  the  sense  or  grammar  : — 

Page      5,  line  5,  for  'de'  read  la. 

60, 3  of  the  motto^  for  '  Ou','  read  Ov'. 

64, 2,  for  '•  in  which  was  formerly,'  read  formerly 

part  of. 

79?  ^^w^  7?  omit  '  proffered.' 

84, last^  for  '  creca,'  read  cresca. 

140, 10, /or  'realizes,'  reac? realize. 

168, A  from  bottom,  after '  arrived,'  insert  at  Lausanne. 

188, 9, /or  '  purgation,'  read  infliction. 

_ 194, 9, /or  quickly,  read  quietly. 

237, 8,  for  '  incersept,'  read  intersect. 

239, 5  of  the  note,  for  '  cliffs,'  read  clefts, 

311, 2, /or  '  rustic,'  read  rustics. 

353, 2,  for  '  hence,'  read  thence. 

, 5,  after  '  it,'  insert  at. 

, 14,  after  '  to,'  insert  cart. 

377^       ...  8,  for  '  serving,'  read  saving. 


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